AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


BRET  HAI^TE 

TO  WHICH    ARE    ADDED, 

'HAT  HEATHEN  CHINEE 
DOW'S  FLAT. JIM 

FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM 
TRUTHFUL  JAMES 


LONDON: 
GEORGE    ROUTLEDGE    &    SONS, 

THE  BROADWAY,  LUDGATE. 


Wl 
Ov 


• 


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TKUTHFUL    JAMES 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


TRUTHFUL    JAMES 

AND 

OTHER   POEMS. 

TO  WHICH  ABE   A.DDED 

THAT  HEATHEN  CHINEE, 
DOW'S  FLAT,    JIM, 

AND 

FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


BY 

BEET    HARTE 


LONDON: 

GEORGE    ROUTLEDGE    AND    SONS, 
THE   BROADWAY,  LUDGATE. 


SIJCMOJTS  AND  BOlTBlf,  PBIITTBSS,  SHOE  ti-NK,  B.C. 


3  \*\  &  2> 

Bancroft  Library 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

PAGE 

TRUTHFUL  JAMES'S  ANSWER  TO  "HER  LETTER"          .  9 

FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES               .  13 

A  GREYPORT  LEGEND 17 

A  NEWPORT  EOMANCE         ....  .20 

THE  HAWK'S  NEST .25 

IN  THE  MISSION  GARDEN     .        .        .        .        .        .  28 

THE  OLD  MAJOR  EXPLAINS 31 

"  SEVENTY-NINE  "         .        .        .        .        .        .        .  35 

THE  WONDERFUL  SPRING  OF  SAN  JOAQUIN          .        .  39 

ON  A  CONE  OF  THE  BIG  TREES 45 

A  SANITARY  MESSAGE 49 

THE  COPPERHEAD 52 

ON  A  PEN  OF  THOMAS  STARR  KING    ....  54 

LONE  MOUNTAIN 56 

CALIFORNIA'S  GREETING  TO  SEWARD     ....  58 

THE  Two  SHIPS 60 

THE  GODDESS 61 

ADDRESS 64 

THE  LOST  GALLEON 67 

THE  SECOND  BE  VIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY                .  76 


V1  CONTENTS, 


II. 

PAGE 

BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN 83 

THE  STAGE-DRIVER'S  STORY          .        .  85 

ASPIRING  Miss  DE  LAINE     .        ,  89 

CALIFORNIA  MADRIGAL           .        .  99 

ST.  THOMAS            •....'  101 

BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE          .        .        ..  1(j4 

LEGENDS  OF  THE  EHINE        ...  HI 

MRS.  JUDGE  JENKINS:  SEQUEL  TO  MAUD  MULLER  114 

AVITOR j-jg 

A  WHITE  PINE  BALLAD        .        .        .  12 1 

LITTLE  BED  RIDING-HOOD    .        ,        .  124 

THE  RITUALIST      ....  12g 

A  MORAL  VINDICATOR  ....  12g 

SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE  ....  131 

THAT  HEATHEN  CHINEE        .        .  134 

M,      • '  137 

's  FLAT  .  -,o8 

ICO 


TART   I. 


TKUTHFUL    JAMES 

AND  OTHEE  POEMS. 


HIS  ANSWER  TO  "HER  LETTER/' 

BEPORTED   BY   TEUTHFQL   JAMES. 

BEING  asked  by  an  intimate  party, — 

Which  the  same  I  would  term  as  a  friend, — 
Which  his  health  it  were  vain  to  call  hearty, 

Since  the  mind  to  deceit  it  might  lend; 
For  his  arm  it  was  broken  quite  recent, 

And  has  something  gone  wrong  with  his  lung,- 
Which  is  why  it  is  proper  and  decent 

I  should  write  what  he  runs  off  his  tongue : 


10  HIS   ANSWER   TO 

First,  he  says,  Miss,  he's  read  through  your  letter 

To  the  end, — and  the  end  came  too  soon  ; 
That  a  slight  illness  kept  him  your  debtor 

(Which  for  weeks  he  was  wild  as  a  loon)  ; 
That  his  spirits  are  buoyant  as  yours  is ; 

That  with  you,  Miss,  he  challenges  Fate 
(Which  the  language  that  invalid  uses 

At  times  it  were  vain  to  relate) . 

And  he  says  that  the  mountains  are  fairer 

For  once  being  held  in  your  thought ; 
That  each  rock  holds  a  wealth  that  is  rarer 

Than  ever  by  gold-seeker  sought 
(Which  are  words  he  would  put  in  these  pages, 

By  a  party  not  given  to  guile  ; 
Which  the  same  not,  at  date,  paying  wages, 

Might  produce  in  the  sinful  a  smile) . 

He  remembers  the  ball  at  the  Ferry, 

And  the  ride,  and  the  gate,  and  the  vow, 
And  the  rose  that  you  gave  him, — that  very 

Same  rose  he  is  treasuring  now 
(Which  his  blanket  he's  kicked  on  his  trunk,  Miss, 

And  insists  on  his  legs  being  free  ; 
And  his  language  to  me  from  his  bunk,  Miss, 

Is  frequent  and  painful  and  free) ; 


11 

He  hopes  you  are  wearing  no  willows. 

But  are  happy  and  gay  all  the  while ; 
That  he  knows  (which  this  dodging  of  pillows 

Imparts  but  small  ease  to  the  style, 
And  the  same  you  will  pardon), — he  knows,  Miss, 

That,  though  parted  by  many  a  mile, 
Yet  were  he  lying  under  the  snows,  Miss, 

They'd  melt  into  tears  at  your  smile. 

And  you'll  still  think  of  him  in  your  pleasures, 

In  your  brief  twilight  dreams  of  the  past ; 
In  this  green  laurel-spray  that  he  treasures, 

It  was  plucked  where  your  parting  was  last ; 
In  this  specimen, — but  a  small  trifle, — 

It  will  do  for  a  pin  for  your  shawl 
(Which  the  truth  not  to  wickedly  stifle 

Was  his  last  week's  " clean  up," — and  his  all). 

He's  asleep,  which  the  samemightseem  strange, Miss, 

Were  it  not  that  I  scorn  to  deny 
That  I  raised  his  last  dose,  for  a  change,  Miss, 

In  view  that  his  fever  was  high  ; 
But  he  lies  there  quite  peaceful  and- pensive. 

And  now,  my  respects,  Miss,  to  you  ; 
Which  my  language,  although  comprehensive, 

Might  seem  to  be  freedom, — it's  true. 


12  HIS   ANSWER   TO    "  HEK    LE1TER." 

Whicli  I  have  a  small  favor  to  ask  you, 

As  concerns  a  bull-pup,  which  the  same, — 
If  the  duty  would  not  overtask  you, — 

You  would  please  to  procure  for  me,  game ; 
And  send  per  express  to  the  Flat,  Miss, 

Which  they  say  York  is  famed  for  the  breed, 
Which  though  words  of  deceit  may  be  that,  Miss, 

Fll  trust  to  your  taste,  Miss,  indeed. 

P.S. — Which  this  same  interfering 

Into  other  folks'  way  I  despise ; 
Yet  if  it  so  be  I  was  hearing 

That  it's  just  empty  pockets  as  lies 
Betwixt  you  and  Joseph,  it  follers, 

That,  having  no  family  claims, 
Here's  my  pile ;  which  it's  six  hundred  dollars, 

As  is  yours,  with  respects, 

TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


FUETHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL 
JAMES. 

(NYE'S  FORD,  STANISLAUS.) 
(1870.) 

Do  I  sleep  ?  do  I  dream  ? 
Do  I  wonder  and  doubt  ? 
Are  things  what  they  seem  ? 
Or  is  visions  about  ? 
Is  our  civilization  a  failure  ? 
Or  is  the  Caucasian  played  out  ? 

Which  expressions  are  strong ; 

Yet  would  feebly  imply 

Some  account  of  a  wrong — 

Not  to  call  it  a  lie — 

As  was  worked  off  on  William,  my  pardner, 

And  the  same  being  W.  Nye. 


FURTHER   LANGUAGE   FEOM   TEUTHFDL   JAMES. 

He  came  down  to  the  Ford 

On  the  very  same  day 

Of  that  lottery  drawed 

By  those  sharps  at  the  Bay ; 

And  he  says  to  me,  "  Truthful,  how  goes  it?  " 

I  replied,  "  It  is  far,  far  from  gay ; 

"  For  the  camp  has  gone  wild 

On  this  lottery  game, 

And  has  even  beguiled 

'  Injin  Dick'  by  the  same/' 

Which  said  Nye  to  me,  "  Injins  is  pizen  : 

Do  you  know  what  his  number  is,  James  ?  " 

I  replied  "  7,2, 
9,8,4,  is  his  hand;  " 
When  he  started,  and  drew 
Out  a  list,  which  he  scanned ; 
Then  he  softly  went  for  his  revolver 
With  language  I  cannot  command. 

Then  I  said,  "  William  Nye  !  " 
But  he  turned  upon  me, 
And  the  look  in  his  eye 
Was  quite  painful  to  see ; 


FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES.    15 

And  he  says,,  "  You  mistake  :  this  poor  Injin 

I  protects  from  such  sharps  as  you  be  ! }i 

I  was  shocked  and  withdrew ; 

But  I  grieve  to  relate, 

When  he  next  met  my  view 

Injin  Dick  was  his  mate. 

And  the  two  around  town  was  a -lying 

In  a  frightfully  dissolute  state. 

Which  the  war-dance  they  had 
Bound  a  tree  at  the  Bend 
Was  a  sight  that  was  sad ; 
And  it  seemed  that  the  end 
W^ould  not  justify  the  proceedings, 
As  I  quiet  remarked  to  a  friend. 

For  that  Injin  he  fled 

The  next  day  to  his  band ; 

And  we  found  William  spread 

Very  loose  on  the  strand, 

With  a  peaceful-like  smile  on  his  features, 

And  a  dollar  greenback  in  his  hand  ; 

Which,  the  same  when  rolled  out, 
We  observed  with  surpise, 


16   FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES, 

That  that  Injin,  no  doubt, 
Had  believed  was  the  prize,  — 
Them  figures  in  red  in  the  corner, 
Which  the  number  of  notes  specifies. 

Was  it  guile,  or  a  dream  ? 
Is  it  Nye  that  I  doubt  ? 
Are  things  what  they  seem  ? 
Or  is  visions  about  ? 
Is  our  civilization  a  failure  ? 
Or  is  the  Caucasian  played  out  ? 


A  GREYPORT  LEGEND. 

(1797.) 

THEY  ran  through  the  streets  of  the  seaport  town ; 

They  peered  from  the  decks  of  the  ships  that  lay  ; 

The  cold  sea-fog  that  came  whitening  down 

Was  never  as  cold  or  white  as  they. 

"  Ho,  Starbuck  and  Pinckney  and  Tenterden 
Run  for  your  shallops,  gather  your  men, 
Scatter  your  boats  on  the  lower  bay." 

Good  cause  for  fear  !     In  the  thick  midday 
The  hulk  that  lay  by  the  rotting  pier, 
Filled  with  the  children  in  happy  play, 
Parted  its  moorings,  and  drifted  clear, — 

Drifted  clear  beyond  the  reach  or  call, — - 
Thirteen  children  they  were  in  all, — 
All  adrift  in  the  lower  bay  ! 

2 


18  A    GREYPOET   LEGEND. 

Said  a  hard-faced  skipper,  "  God  help  us  all  ! 

She  will  not  float  till  the  turning  tide  !  " 

Said  his  wife,  ' c  My  darling  will  hear  my  call, 

Whether  in  sea  or  heaven  she  bide  :  " 

And  she  lifted  a  quavering  voice  and  high. 
Wild  and  strange  as  a  sea-bird's  cry, 

Till  they  shuddered  and  wondered  at  her  side. 


The  fog  drove  down  on  each  laboring  crew, 
Veiled  each  from  each  and  the  sky  and  shore  : 
There  was  not  a  sound  but  the  breath  they  drew, 
And  the  lap  of  water  and  creak  of  oar  ; 

And  they  felt  the  breath  of  the  downs,  fresh  blown 
O'er  leagues  of  clover  and  cold  gray  stone, 
But  not  from  the  lips  that  had  gone  before. 


They  come  no  more.     But  they  tell  the  tale, 

That,  when  fogs  are  thick  on  the  harbor  reef, 

The  mackerel  fishers  shorten  sail ; 

For  the  signal  they  know  will  bring  relief : 
For  the  voices  of  children,  still  at  play 
In  a  phantom  hulk  that  drifts  alway 
Through  channels  whose  waters  never  fail. 


A    GREYPORT   LEGEND.  19 

It  is  but  a  foolish  shipman's  tale, 

A  theme  for  a  poet's  idle  page ; 

But  still,  when  the  mists  of  doubt  prevail, 

And  we  lie  becalmed  by  the  shores  of  Age, 
We  hear  from  the  misty  troubled  shore 
The  voice  of  the  children  gone  before, 
Drawing  the  soul  to  its  anchorage. 


A  NEWPOKT  ROMANCE. 

THEY  say  that  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 

(I  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me) ; 
But  her  spirit  lives,  and  her  soul  is  part 

Of  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

Her  lover  was  fickle  and  fine  and  French  : 

It  was  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
When  he  sailed  away  from  her  arms — poor  wench — 

With  the  Admiral  Rochambeau. 

I  marvel  much  what  periwigged  phrase 
Won  the  heart  of  this  sentimental  Quaker, 

At  what  golden-laced  speech  of  those  modish  days 
She  listened — the  mischief  take  her  ! 

But  she  kept  the  posies  of  mignonette 

That  he  gave ;  and  ever  as  their  bloom  failed 


A    NEWPORT    ROMANCE.  21 

And  faded  (though  with  her  tears  still  wet) 
Her  youth  with  their  own  exhaled. 

Till  one  night,  when  the  sea-fog  wrapped  a  shroud 
Kound  spar  and  spire  and  tarn  and  tree, 

Her  soul  went  up  on  that  lifted  cloud 
From  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

And  ever  since  then,  when  the  clock  strikes  two. 
She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room, 

And  the  air  is  filled  that  she  passes  through 
With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 

The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead  and  gone  bouquet, 

Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story ;  yet 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way  ? 


I  sit  in  the  sad  old  house  to-night, — 
Myself  a  ghost  from  a  farther  sea ; 

And  I  trust  that  this  Quaker  woman  might, 
In  courtesy,  visit  me. 


22  A   NEWPORT   ROMANCE. 

For  the  laugh  is  fled  from  porch  and  lawn, 
And  the  bugle  died  from  the  fort  on  the  hill, 

And  the  twitter  of  girls  on  the  stairs  is  gone, 
And  the  grand  piano  is  still. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  clock  strikes  two  j 
And  there  is  no  sound  in  the  sad  old  house, 

But  the  long  veranda  dripping  with  dew, 
And  in  the  wainscot  a  mouse. 

The  light  of  my  study-lamp  streams  out 
From  the  library  door,  but  has  gone  astray 

In  the  depths  of  the  darkened  hall.     Small  doubt 
But  the  Quakeress  knows  the  way. 

Was  it  the  trick  of  a  sense  overwrought 
With  outward  watching  and  inward  fret  ? 

But  I  swear  that  the  air  just  now  was  fraught 
With  the  odor  of  mignonette ! 

I  open  the  window,  and  seem  almost — 
So  still  lies  the  ocean — to  hear  the  beat 

Of  its  Great  Gulf  artery  off  the  coast, 
And  to  bask  in  its  tropic  heat. 


A  NEWPORT   EOMANCB.  23 

In  my -neighbor's  windows  the  gas-lights  flare, 
As  the  dancer's  swing  in  a  waltz  of  Strauss ; 

And  I  wonder  now  could  I  fit  that  air 
To  the  song  of  this  sad  old  house. 

And  no  odor  of  mignonette  there  is 

But  the  breath  of  morn  on  the  dewy  lawn ; 

And  mayhap  from  causes  as  slight  as  this 
The  quaint  old  legend  is  born. 

But  the  soul  of  that  subtle,  sad  perfume, 

As  the  spiced  embalmings,  they  say,  outlast 

The  mummy  laid  in  his  rocky  tomb, 
Awakens  my  buried  past. 

And  I  think  of  the  passion  that  shook  my  youth, 
Of  its  aimless  loves  and  its  idle  pains, 

And  am  thankful  now  for  the  certain  truth 
That  only  the  sweet  remains. 

And  I  hear  no  rustle  of  stiff  brocade, 
And  I  see  no  face  at  my  library  door ; 

For  now  that  the  ghosts  of  my  heart  are  laid, 
She  is  viewless  forevermore. 


24  A   NEWPORT    ROMANCE. 

But  whether  she  came  as  a  faint  perfume, 
Or  whether  a  spirit  in  stole  of  white, 

I  feel,  as  I  pass  from  the  darkened  room, 
She  has  been  with  my  soul  to-night ! 


THE  HAWK'S  NEST. 
(SIERRAS.) 

WE  checked  our  pace., — the  red  road  sharply  round- 
ing; 

We  heard  the  troubled  flow 
Of  the  dark  olive  depths  of  pines,  resounding 

A  thousand  feet  below. 


Above  the  tumult  of  the  canon  lifted, 
The  gray  hawk  breathless  hung ; 

Or  on  the  hill  a  winged  shadow  drifted 
Where  furze  and  thorn-bush  clung ; 


Or  where  half-way  the  mountain  side  was  furrowed 

With  many  a  seam  and  scar ; 
Or  some  abandoned  tunnel  dimly  burrowed, — 

A  mole-hill  seen  so  far. 


26 

We  looked  in  silence  down  across  the  distant 

Unfathomable  reach  : 
A  silence  broken  by  the  guide's  consistent 

And  realistic  speech. 

cc  Walker  of  Murphy's  blew  a  hole  through  Peters 

For  telling  him  he  lied ; 
Then  up  and  dusted  out  of  South  Hornitos 

Across  the  long  Divide. 

' '  We  ran  him  out  of  Strong's,  and  up  through  Eden, 

And  'cross  the  ford  below ; 
And  up  this  canon  (Peters'  brother  leadin'), 

And  me  and  Clark  and  Joe. 

"  He  fou't  us  game  :  somehow,  I  disremember 

Jest  how  the  thing  kern  round  ; 
Some  say  'twas  wadding,  some  a  scattered  ember 

From  fires  on  the  ground. 

' '  But  in  one  minute  all  the  hill  below  him 

Was  just  one  sheet  of  flame  ; 
Gruardin'  the  crest,  Sam  Clark  and  I  called  to  him. 

And, — well  the  dog  was  game  ! 


27 

1  ( He  made  no  sign  :  the  fires  of  hell  were  round  him, 

The  pit  of  hell  below. 
We  sat  and  waited,  but  never  found  him  ; 

And  then  we  turned  to  go. 

"  And  then— you  see  that   rock   that's   grown   so 
bristly 

With  chaparral  and  tan — 
Suthin'  crep'  out :  it  might  hev  been  a  grizzly, 

It  might  hev  been  a  man  ; 

"  Suthin'  that  howled,  and  gnashed  its  teeth,  and 
shouted 

In  smoke  and  dust  and  flame ; 
Suthin'  that  sprang  into  the  depths  about  it, 

Grizzly  or  man, — but  game  ! 

"  That's  all.     Well,  yes,  it  does  look  rather  risky, 

And  kinder  makes  one  queer 
And  dizzy  looking  down.     A  drop  of  whiskey 

Ain't  a  bad  thing  right  here  !  " 


IN  THE  MISSION  GARDEN. 

(1865.) 

FATHER   FELIPE. 

I  SPEAK  not  the  English  well,  but  Pachita 
She  speak  for  me ;  is  it  not  so,  my  Pancha  ? 
Eh,  little  rogue?     Come,  salute  me  the  stracger 

Americano. 

Sir,  in  my  country  we  say,  "  Where  the  heart  is, 
There  live  the  speech."  Ah !  you  not  understand  ?  So  ! 
Pardon  an  old  man, — what  you  call  "  ol  fogy/' — 

Padre  Felipe ! 

Old,  Senor,  old  !  just  so  old  as  the  Mission. 

You  see  that  pear-tree  ?  How  old  you  think,  Senor  ? 

Fifteen  year  ?  Twenty  ?  Ah,  Senor,  just  Fifty 

Gone  since  I  plant  him  ! 


IN   THE    MISSION    GARDEN.  29 

You  like  the  wine  ?     It  is  some  at  the  Mission, 
Made  from  the  grape  of  the  year  Eighteen  Hundred ; 
All  the  same  time  when  the  earthquake  he  come  to 

San  Juan  Bautista. 

But  Pancha  is  twelve,  and  she  is  the  rose-tree ; 
And  I  am  the  olive,  and  this  is  the  garden  : 
And  Pancha  we  say ;  but  her  name  is  Francisca, 

Same  like  her  mother. 


Eh,  you  knew  her  ?     No  ?     Ah  !  it  is  a  story  ; 
But  I  speak  not,  like  Pachita,  the  English  : 
So  ?     Tf  I  try,  you  will  sit  here  beside  me, 

And  shall  not  laugh,  eh  ? 

When  the  American  come  to  the  Mission, 
Many  arrive  at  the  house  of  Francisca  : 
One, — he  was  fine  man, — he  buy  the  cattle 

Of  Jose  Castro. 

So  !  he  came  much,  and  Francisca  she  saw  him  : 
And  it  was  Love, — and  a  very  dry  season ; 
And  the  pears  bake  on  the  tree, — and  the  rain  come, 

But  not  Francisca ; 


30  IN   THE   MISSION    GARDEN. 

Not  for  one  year ;  and  one  night  I  have  walk  much 
Under  the  olive-tree,  when  comes  Francisca : 
Comes  to  me  here,  with  her  child,  this  Francisca,— 

Under  the  olive-tree. 

Sir,  it  was  sad ;  .  .  .  but  I  speak  not  the  English ; 
So !  ...  she  stay  here,  and  she  wait  for  her  husband  : 
He  come  no  more,  and  she  sleep  on  the  hillside ; 

There  stands  Pachita. 

Ah  !  there's  the  Angelus.     Will  you  not  enter  ? 
Or  shall  you  walk  in  the  garden  with  Pancha  ? 
Go,  little  rogue — stt — attend  to  the  stranger. 

Adios,  Senor. 

PACHITA  (briskly}. 

So,  he's  been  telling  that  yarn  about  mother ! 
Bless  you,  he  tells  it  to  every  stranger  : 
Folks  about  yer  say  the  old  man's  my  father ; 

What's  your  opinion  ? 


THE  OLD  MAJOR  EXPLAINS. 

(RE- UNION   AEMY   OF   THE   POTOMAC,    12TH   MAY,   1871.) 


"  WELL,  you  see,  the  fact  is,  Colonel,  I  don't  know 

as  I  can  come  : 
For  the  farm  is  not  half  planted,  and  there's  work 

to  do  at  home ; 
And  my  leg  is  getting  troublesome, — it  laid  me  up 

last  fall, 
And  the  doctors,  they  have  cut  and  hacked,  and 

never  found  the  ball. 


"  And  then,  for  an  old  man  like  me,  it's  not  exactly 

right, 
This  kind   o;   playing  soldier  with  no   enemy   in 

sight. 


32  THE    OLD    MAJOR    EXPLAINS. 

'  The  Union' — that   was   well   enough   way   up   to 

'66; 
But  this  f  Re-Union/ — maybe  now  it's  mixed  with 

politics  ? 


' '  No  ?  Well,  you  understand  it  best ;  but  then,  you 

see,  my  lad, 
I'm  deacon  now,  and  some  might  think  that  the 

example's  bad. 
And  week  from  next  is  Conference.  .  .  .  You  said 

the  12th  of  May? 
Why,  that's  the  day  we  broke  their  line  at  Spottsyl- 

van-i-a ! 


' '  Hot  work  ;  eh,  Colonel,  wasn't  it  ?    Ye  mind  that 

narrow  front : 
They  called  it  the  '  Death-Angle  ! '     Well,  well,  my 

lad,  we  won't 
Fight   that  old  battle  over  now :  I  only  meant  to 

say 
I  really  can't  engage  to  come  upon  the   12th   of 

Mav. 


THE    OLD   MAJOR    EXPLAINS.  33 

"How'sThompson?    What !  will  lie  be  there  ?  Well 

now,  I  want  to  know  ! 
The  first  man  in  the  rebel  works  !  they  called  him 

f  Swearing  Joe :' 
A  wild  young  fellow,  sir,  I  fear  the  rascal  was ;  but 

then — 
Well,  short  of  heaven,  there  wasn't  a  place  he  dursn't 

lead  his  men. 


(( And  Dick,  you  say,  is  coming  too.     And  Billy  ? 

ah  !  it's  true 
We  buried  him  at  Gettysburg  :  I  mind  the  spot ;  do 

you? 
A  little  field  below  the  hill, — it  must  be  green  this 

•a  JT 


ay; 

Perhaps  that's  why  the  fields  about  bring  him  to  me 
to-day. 


ff  Well,  well,  excuse  me.    Colonel !    but  there  are 

some  things  that  drop 
The  tail-board  out  one's  feelings ;  and  the  only  way's 

to  stop. 


34  THE   OLD   MAJOE   EXPLAINS. 

So  they  want  to  see  the  old  man ;  ah,  the  rascals ! 

do  they,  eh  ? 
Well,  I've  business  down  in  Boston  about  the  12th 

of  May." 


«  SEVENTY-NINE/ 


MR.   INTERVIEWER   INTERVIEWED. 

KNOW  me  next  time  when  you  see  me,  won't  you,  old 

smarty  ? 
Oh,  I  mean  you,  old   figger-head, — just   the  same 

party  ! 

Take  out  your  pensivil,  d — n  you ;  sharpen  it,  do ! 
Any  complaints  to   make?  Lots   of  'em — one   of 

'em's  you. 

You !  who  are  you,  anyhow,    goin'  round  in  that 

sneakin'  way  ? 

Never  in  jail  before  was  you,  old  blatherskite,  say  ? 
Look  at  it ;  don't  it  look  pooty  ?    Oh,  grin,  and  be 

d — d  to  you,  do  ! 
But,  if  I  had  you  this  side  o'  that  gratin',  I'd  just 

make  it  lively  for  you. 


36  "  SEVENTY-NINE." 

How  did  I  get  in  here  ?  Well,  what  'ud  you  give  to 

know  ? 
'Twasn't  by  sneakin'  round  where  I  hadn't  no  call 

to  go: 

'T  wasn't  by  hangin'  round  a  spy  in'  unfortnet  men. 
Grin  !  but  I'll  stop   your  jaw  if  ever  you  do  that 

agen. 

Why  don't  you  say  suthin',  blast  you  ?  Speak  your 

mind  if  you  dare. 

Ain't  I  a  bad  lot,  sonny  ?  Say  it,  and  call  it  square. 
Hain't  got  no  tongue,  hey,  hev  ye.     0  guard  !  here's 

a  little  swell, 
A  cussin'  and  swearin'    and  yellin',  and  bribin'  me 

not  to  tell. 


There,  I  thought  that  'ud  fetch  ye.     And  you  want 

to  know  my  name  ? 
"  Seventy-Nine"  they  call  me  ;  but  this  is  their  little 

game. 
For  I'm  werry  highly  connected,  as  a  gent,  sir,  can 

understand ; 
And  my  family  hold  their  heads  up  with  the  very 

furst  in  the  land 


37 

For  'twas  all,  sir,  a  put-up  job  on  a  pore  young  man 

like  me ; 
And  the  jury  was  bribed  a  puppos,  and  aftdrst  they 

couldn't  agree. 
And  I  sed  to  the  judge,'  sez  I, — Oh,  grin  !  it's  all 

right  my  son ! 
But  you're  a  werry  lively  young  pup,  and  you  ain't 

to  be  played  upon  1 

Wot's  that  you  got — tobacco  ?  I'm   cussed  but  I 

thought  'twas  a  tract. 
Thank  ye.     A  chap  t'other  day — now,  look'ee,  this 

is  a  fact, 

Slings  me  a  tract  on  the  evils  o'  keepin'  bad  company, 
As  if  all  the  saints  was  howlin'  to  stay  here  along's 

we. 

No  :  I  hain't  no  complaints.     Stop,  yes  ;  do  you  see 

that  chap, — 
Him  standin'  over  there, — a  hidin'  his  eyes  in  his 

cap  ? 
Well  that  man's  stumick  is  weak,  and  he  can't  stand 

the  pris'n  fare ; 
For  the  coffee  is  just  half  beans,  and  the  sugar  ain't 

no  where. 


B8 

Perhaps  it's  his  bringin'   up  j  but   he  sickens  day 

by  day, 
And  he  doesn't  take  no  food,  and  I'm  seein'  him 

waste  away, 
And  it  isn't  the  thing  to  see  j    for,   whatever  he's 

been  and  done, 
Starvation  isn't  the  plan  as  he's  to  be  saved  upon. 

For  he  cannot  rough  it  like  me ;  and  he  hasn't  the 

stamps,  I  guess, 
To  buy  him  his  extry  grub  outside  o'  the  pris'n 

mess. 
A.nd  perhaps  if  a  gent  like  you,  with  whom  I've  been 

sorter  free, 
Would — thank  you  !      But,   say,  look  here  !      Oh, 

blast  it,  don't  give  it  to  ME  ! 

Don't  you  give  it  to  me ;  now,  don't  ye,  don't  ye, 

don't  ! 
Fou  think  it's  a  put-up  job  ;  so  I'll  thank  ye,  sir,  if 

you  won't. 
But  hand  him  the  stamps  yourself:  why,  he  isn't 

even  my  pal ; 
Ind  if  it's  a  comfort  to  you,  why,  I  don't  intend  that 

he  shall. 


THE    WONDERFUL    SPBING    OF    SAN 
JOAQUIN. 

OF  all  the  fountains  that  poets  sing, — 

Crystal,  therm al,  or  mineral  spring  ; 

Ponce  de  Leon's  Fount  of  Youth  j 

Wells  with  bottoms  of  doubtful  truth ; 

In  short,  of  all  the  springs  of  Time 

That  ever  were  flowing  in  fact  or  rhyme, 

That  ever  were  tasted,  felt,  or  seen, — 

There  were  none  like  the  Spring  of  San  Joaquin, 


Anno  Domini  Eighteen- Seven, 
Father  Dominguez  (now  in  heaven, — 
Obiitj  Eighteen  twenty-seven) 
Found  the  spring,  and  found  it,  too, 
By  his  mule's  miraculous  cast  of  a  shoe  ; 


40         THE   WONDERFUL   SPEING   OF   SAN   JOAQUIN. 

For  his  beast — a  descendant  of  Balaam's  ass- 
Stopped  on  the  instant,,  and  would  not  pass. 


The  Padre  thought  the  omen  good, 

And  bent  his  lips  to  the  trickling  flood ; 

Then — as  the  chronicles  declare, 

On  the  honest  faith  of  a  true  believer — 

His  cheeks,  though  wasted,  lank,  and  bare, 

Filled  like  a  withered  russet-pear 

In  the  vacuum  of  a  glass  receiver, 

And  the  snows  that  seventy  winters  bring 

Melted  away  in  that  magic  spring. 


Such,  at  least,  was  the  wondrous  news 
The  Padre  brought  into  Santa  Cruz. 
The  Church,  of  course,  had  its  own  views 
Of  who  were  worthiest  to  use 
The  magic  spring  ;  but  the  prior  claim 
Fell  to  the  aged,  sick,  and  lame. 
Far  and  wide  the  people  came  : 
Some  from  the  healthful  Aptos  creek 
Hastened  to  bring  their  helpless  sick  ; 


THE   WONDEEFUL   SPRING   OP   SAN   JOAQUIN.         41 

Even  the  fishers  of  rude  Soquel 
Suddenly  found  they  were  far  from  well; 
The  brawny  dwellers  of  San  Lorenzo 
Said,  in  fact,  they  had  never  been  so  : 
And  all  were  ailing, — strange  to  say, — 
From  Pescadero  to  Monterey. 


Over  the  mountain  they  poured  in 
With  leathern  bottles,  and  bags  of  skin  ; 
Through  the  canons  a  motley  throng 
Trotted,  hobbled,  and  limped  along. 
The  fathers  gazed  at  the  moving  scene 
With  pious  joy  and  with  souls  serene ; 
And  then — a  result  perhaps  foreseen — 
They  laid  out  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 


Not  in  the  eyes  of  Faith  alone 

The  good  effects  of  the  waters  shone ; 

But  skins  grew  rosy,  eyes  waxed  clear, 

Of  rough  vacquero  and  muleteer ; 

Angular  forms  were  rounded  out, 

Limbs  grew  supple,  and  waists  grew  stout ; 


42         THE   WONDERFUL   SPRING   OP   SAN   JOAQUIN. 

And  as  for  the  girls, — for  miles  about 
They  had  no  equal !     To  this  day, 
From  Pescadero  to  Monterey, 
You'll  still  find  eyes  in  which  are  seen 
The  liquid  graces  of  San  Joaquin. 


There  is  a  limit  to  human  bliss, 

And  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin  had  this  ; 

None  went  abroad  to  roam  or  stay, 

But  they  fell  sick  in  the  queerest  way, — 

A  singular  maladie  du  pays, 

With  gastric  symptoms  :  so  they  spent 

Their  days  in  a  sensuous  content ; 

Caring  little  for  things  unseen 

Beyond  their  bowers  of  living  green, — 

Beyond  the  mountains  that  lay  between 

The  world  and  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 


Winter  passed,  and  the  summer  came  : 
The  trunks  of  madrono  all  aflame, 
Here  and  there  through  the  underwood 
Like  pillars  of  fire  starkly  stood. 


THE   WONDERFUL    SPRING   OF    SAN   JOAQUIN.         43 

All  of  the  breezy  solitude 

Was  filled  with  the  spicing  of  pine  and  bay, 
And  resinous  odors  mixed  and  blended. 

And  dim  and  ghost-like  far  away 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  woods  ascended. 
Then  of  a  sudden  the  mountains  swam, 
The  rivers  piled  their  floods  in  a  dam 
The  ridge  above  Los  Gatos  creek 

Arched  its  spine  in  a  feline  fashion ; 
The  forests  waltzed  till  they  grew  sick, 

And  Nature  shook  in  a  speechless  passion ; 
And,  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake's  spleen, 
The  wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquiu 
Vanished,  and  never  more  was  seen  ! 


Two  days  passed  :  the  Mission  folk 

Out  of  their  rosy  dream  awoke. 

Some  of  them  looked  a  trifle  white  ; 

But  that,  no  doubt,  was  from  earthquake  fright. 

Three  days  :  there  was  sore  distress, 

Headache,  nausea,  giddiness. 

Four  days  :  faintings,  tenderness 

Of  the  mouth  and  fauces ;  and  in  less 


44         THE   WONDERFUL   SPRING   OP    SAN   JOAQUIN. 

Than  one  week, — here  the  story  closes ; 
We  won't  continue  the  prognosis, — 
Enough  that  now  no  trace  is  seen 
Of  Spring  or  Mission  of  San  Joaquin, 


MORAL. 

You  see  the  point  ?     Don't  be  too  quick 
To  break  bad  habits  :  betters  stick, 
Like  the  Mission  folk,  to  your  arsenic. 


ON  A  CONE  OF  THE  BIG  TREES, 


Sequoia  Gigantea. 

BKOWN  foundling  of  the  Western  wood, 

Babe  of  primeval  wildernesses  ! 
Long  on  my  table  thou  hast  stood 

Encounters  strange  and  rude  caresses ; 
Perchance  contented  with  thy  lot, 

Surroundings  new  and  curious  faces, 
As  though  ten  centuries  were  not 

Imprisoned  in  thy  shining  cases  ! 

Thou  bring'st  me  back  the  halcyon  days 
Of  grateful  rest ;  the  week  of  leisure, 

The  journey  lapped  in  autumn  haze, 

The  sweet  fatigue  that  seemed  a  pleasure, 


46  ON   A   CONE    OF   THE   BIG   TREES. 

The  morning  ride,  the  noonday  halt. 
The  blazing  slopes,  the  red  dust  rising, 

And  then — the  dim,  brown,  columned  vault, 
With  its  cool,  damp,  sepulchral  spicing. 


Once  more  I  see  the  rocking  masts 

That  scrape  the  sky,  their  only  tenant 
The  jay-bird  that  in  frolic  casts 

From  some  high  yard  his  broad  blue  pennant. 
I  see  the  Indian  files  that  keep 

Their  places  in  the  dusty  heather, 
Their  red  trunks  standing  ankle  deep 

In  moccasins  of  rusty  leather. 


I  see  all  this,  and  marvel  much 

That  thou,  sweet  woodland  waif,  art  able 
To  keep  the  company  of  such 

As  throng  thy  friend' s — the  poet's — table : 
The  latest  spawn  the  press  hath  cast, — 

The  "  modern  Pope's/'  "  the  later  Byron's/'- 
Why  e'en  the  best  may  not  outlast 

Thy  poor  relation, — Sempervirens. 


ON   A   CONE   OF    THE    BIG    TREES.  47 

Thy  sire  saw  the  light  that  shone 

On  Mohammed's  uplifted  crescent, 
On  many  a  royal  gilded  throne 

And  deed  forgotten  in  the  present ; 
He  saw  the  age  of  sacred  trees 

And  Druid  groves  and  mystic  larches  ; 
And  saw  from  forest  domes  like  these 

The  builder  bring  his  Gothic  arches. 


And  must  thou,  foundling,  still  forego 

Thy  heritage  and  high  ambition, 
To  lie  full  lowly  and  full  low, 

Adjusted  to  thy  new  condition  ? 
Not  hidden  in  the  drifted  snows, 

But  under  ink- drops  idly  spattered, 
And  leaves  ephemeral  as  those 

That  on  thy  woodland  tomb  were  scattered. 


Yet  lie  thou  there,  0  friend  !  and  speak 
The  moral  of  thy  simple  story  : 

Though  life  is  all  that  thou  dost  seek, 
And  age  alone  thy  crown  of  glory, — 


48  ON   A   CONE   OP   BIG   TREES. 

Not  thine  the  only  germs  that  fail 
The  purpose  of  their  high  creation, 

If  their  poor  tenements  avail 

For  worldly  show  and  ostentation. 


A  SANITARY  MESSAGE. 

LAST  night,  above  the  whistling  wind, 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain, — 
A  fusillade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane  : 
The  key-hole  piped ;  the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew  ; 
Yet,  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife, 

A  softer  voice  stole  through. 


"  Give  thanks,  0  brothers  !  "  said  the  voice, 

"  That  He  who  sent  the  rains 
Hath  spared  your  fields  the  scarlet  dew 

That  drips  from  patriot  veins  : 

4 


SO  A   SANITARY   MESSAGE. 

.     Fve  seen  the  grass  on  Eastern  graves 

In  brighter  verdure  rise ; 
But,  oh !  the  rain  that  gave  it  life 
Sprang  first  from  human  eyes. 


' '  I  come  to  wash  away  no  stain 

Upon  your  wasted  lea  ; 
I  raise  no  banners,  save  the  ones 

The  forest  wave  to  me  : 
Upon  the  mountain  side,  where  Spring 

Her  farthest  picket  sets, 
My  reveille  awakes  a  host 

Of  grassy  bayonets. 


"  I  visit  every  humble  roof; 

I  mingle  with  the  low  : 
Only  upon  the  highest  peaks 

My  blessings  fall  in  snow ; 
Until,  in  tricklings  of  the  stream 

And  drainings  of  the  lea, 
My  unspent  bounty  comes  at  last 

To  mingle  with  the  sea." 


A   SANITARY   MESSAGE. 

And  thus  all  night,  above  the  wind, 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain, — 
A  fusillade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane  : 
The  key-hole  piped ;  the  chimney- top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew ; 
But,  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife, 

This  hymn  of  peace  stole  through. 


THE  COPPERHEAD. 

(1864.) 

THEEE  is  peace  in  the  swamp  where  the  Copperhead 

sleeps, 
Where  the  waters  are  stagnant,  the  white  vapor 

creeps, 

"Where  the  musk  of  Magnolia  hangs  thick  in  the  air, 
And  the  lilies'  phylacteries  broaden  in  prayer; 
There  is  peace  in  the  swamp,  though  the  quiet  is 

Death, 

Though  the  mist  is  miasm,  the  Upas  tree's  breath, 
Though  no  echo  awakes  to  the  cooing  of  doves, — 
There  is  peace  :  yes,  the  peace  that  the  Copperhead 

loves  ! 

Go  seek  him  :  he  coils  in  the  ooze  and  the  drip 
Like^a  thong  idly  flung  from  the  slave-driver's  whip ; 


THE    COPPERHEAD.  53 

But  beware  the  false  footstep, — the  stumble  that 

brings 

A  deadlier  lash  than  the  overseer  swings. 
Never  arrow  so  true,  never  bullet  so  dread, 
As  the  straight  steady  stroke  of  that  hammer-shaped 

head; 
Whether  slave,  or  proud  planter,  who  ^braves  that 

dull  crest, 
Woe  to  him  who  shall  trouble  the   Copperhead's 

rest ! 

Then  why  waste   your  labours,  brave  hearts   and 

strong  men, 

In  tracking  a  trail  to  the  Copperhead's  den  ? 
Lay  your  axe  to  the  cypress,  hew  open  the  shade 
To  the  free  sky  and  sunshine  Jehovah  has  made ; 
Let  the   breeze  of  the  North    sweep    the  vapors 

away, 

Till  the  stagnant  lake  ripples,  the  freed  waters  play  ; 
And  than  to  your  heel  can  you  righteously  doom 
The  Copperhead  born  of  its  shadow  and  gloom ! 


ON  A  PEN  OF  THOMAS  STARR  KING. 


THIS  is  the  reed  the  dead  musician  dropped, 
With  tuneful  magic  in  its  sheath  still  hidden ; 

The  prompt  allegro  of  its  music  stopped, 
Its  melodies  unbidden. 


But  who  shall  finish  the  unfinished  strain, 
Or  wake  the  instrument  to  awe  and  wonder, 

And  bid  the  slender  barrel  breathe  again, — 
An  organ-pipe  of  thunder? 


His  pen !  what  humbler  memories  cling  about 
Its    golden   curves !    what  shapes  and  laughing 
graces 

Slipped  from  its  point,  when  his  full  heart  went  out 
In  smiles  and  courtly  phrases  ! 


ON   A    PEN   OP   THOMAS    STAKE   KING.  55 

The  truth,  half  jesting,  half  in  earnest  flung ; 

The  word  of  cheer,  with  recognition  in  it ; 
The  note  of  alms,  whose  golden  speech  outrung 

The  golden  gift  within  it. 

But  all  in  vain  the  enchanter's  wand  we  wave  : 
No  stroke  of  ours  recalls  his  magic  vision ; 

The  incantation  that  its  power  gave 
Sleeps  with  the  dead  magician. 


LONE  MOUNTAIN. 

(CEMETERY,  SAN  FRANCISCO.) 

THIS  is  that  hill  of  awe 
That  Persian  Sindbad  saw,— 

The  mount  magnetic ; 
And  on  its  seaward  face, 
Scattered  along  its  base, 

The  wrecks  prophetic. 

Here  come  the  argosies 
Blown  by  each  idle  breeze, 

To  and  fro  shifting; 
Yet  to  the  hill  of  Fate 
All  drawing,  soon  or  late,— 

Day  by  day  drifting; — 


LONE  MOUNTAIN.  57 

Drifting  forever  here 
Barks  that  for  many  a  year 

Braved  wind  and  weather ; 
Shallops  but  yesterday 
Launched  on  yon  shining  bay, — 

Drawn  all  together. 

This  is  the  end  of  all : 
Sun  thyself  by  the  wall, 

O  poorer  Hindbad ! 
Envy  not  Sindbad's  fame  : 
Here  come  alike  the  same, 

Hindbad  and  Sindbad. 


CALIFORNIA'S  GREETING  TO  SEWARD. 

(1869.) 

WE  know  Mm  well :  no  need  of  praise 

Or  bonfire  from  the  windy  hill 
To  light  to  softer  paths  and  ways 

The  world- worn  man  we  honor  still ; 

No  need  to  quote  those  truths  he  spoke 

That  burned  through  years  of  war  and  shame 

While  History  carves  with  surer  stroke 
Across  our  map  his  noon- day  fame; 

No  need  to  bid  him  show  the  scars 
Of  blows  dealt  by  the  Scaean  gate, 

Who  lived  to  pass  its  shattered  bars, 
And  see  the  foe  capitulate ; 


CALIFORNIA'S  GREETING  TO  SEWARD.  I 

Who  lived  to  turn  his  slower  feet 
Toward  the  western  setting  sun, 

To  see  his  harvest  all  complete, 

His  dream  fulfilled,  his  duty  done, — 

The  one  flag  streaming  from  the  pole, 
The  one  faith  borne  from  sea  to  sea, — 

For  such  a  triumph,  and  such  goal, 
Poor  must  our  human  greeting  be. 

Ah  !  rather  that  the  conscious  land 
In  simpler  ways  salute  the  Man, — 

The  tall  pines  bowing  where  they  stand, 
The  bared  head  of  El  Capitan, 

The  tumult  of  the  waterfalls, 
Pohono's  kerchief  in  the  breeze, 

The  waving  from  the  rocky  walls, 
The  stir  and  rustle  of  the  trees  ; 

Till  lapped  in  sunset  skies  of  hope, 

In  sunset  lands  by  sunset  seas, 
The  Young  World's  Premier  treads  the  slope 

Of  sunset  years  in  calm  and  peace. 


THE  TWO  SHIPS. 

As  I  stand  by  the  cross  on  the  lone  mountain's  crest. 

Looking  over  the  ultimate  sea, 
In  the  gloom  of  the  mountain  a  ship  lies  at  rest, 

And  one  sails  away  from  the  lea : 
One  spreads  its  white  wings  on  a  far-reaching  track, 

With  pennant  and  sheet  flowing  free ; 
One  hides  in  the  shadow  with  sails  laid  aback, — 

The  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me  ! 

But  lo,  in  the  distance  the  clouds  break  away  ! 

The  Gate's  glowing  portals  I  see ; 
And  I  hear  from  the  outgoing  ship  in  the  bay 

The  song  of  the  sailors  in  glee : 
So  I  think  of  the  luminous  footprints  that  bore 

The  comfort  o'er  dark  Galilee, 
And  wait  for  the  signal  to  go  to  the  shore, 

To  the  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me. 


THE  GODDESS. 


FOR   THE    SANITARY   FAIR. 

' c  WHO  comes  ?  "     The  sentry's  warning  cry 

Rings  sharply  on  the  evening  air  : 
Who  comes  ?     The  challenge  :  no  reply, 
Yet  something  motions  there. 

A  woman,  by  those  graceful  folds ; 
A  soldier,  by  that  martial  tread  : 
"  Advance  three  paces.     Halt !  until 
Thy  name  and  rank  be  said." 

"  My  name  ?     Her  name,  in  ancient  song, 

Who  fearless  from  Olympus  came  : 
Look  on  me  !     Mortals  know  me  best 
In  battle  and  in  flame." 


62  THE    GODDESS. 

"  Enough  !     I  know  that  clarion  voice ; 
I  know  that  gleaming  eye  and  helm ; 
Those  crimson  lips, — and  in  their  dew 
The  best  blood  of  the  realm. 

"  The  young,  the  brave,  the  good  and  wise, 

Have  fallen  in  thy  curst  embrace : 
The  juices  of  the  grapes  of  wrath 
Still  stain  thy  guilty  face. 

"  My  brother  lies  in  yonder  field, 

Face  downward  to  the  quiet  grass  : 
Go  back  !  he  cannot  see  thee  now ; 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  pass." 

A  crack  upon  the  evening  air, 
A  wakened  echo  from  the  hill : 

The  watch-dog  on  the  distant  shore 
Gives  mouth,  and  all  is  still. 

The  sentry  with  his  brother  lies 
Face  downward  on  the  quiet  grass ; 

And  by  him,  in  the  pale  moonshine, 
A  shadow  seems  to  pass. 


THE   GODDESS. 

No  lance  or  warlike  shield  it  bears  : 

A  helmet  in  its  pitying  hands 
Brings  water  from  the  nearest  brook, 

To  meet  his  last  demands. 

Can  this  be  she  of  haughty  mien, 

The  goddess  of  the  sword  and  shield  ? 

Ah,  yes  !     The  Grecian  poet's  myth 
Sways  still  each  battle-field. 

For  not  alone  that  rugged  war 

Some  grace  or  charm  from  beauty  gains 
But,  when  the  goddess'  work  is  done, 

The  woman's  still  remains. 


ADDRESS. 

OPENING     OF    THE      CALIFOENIA    THEATRE,     SAN    FRAN- 
CISCO,  JAN.    19,    1870. 

BRIEF  words,  when  actions  wait,  are  well : 
The  prompter's  hand  is  on  his  bell ; 
The  coming  heroes,  lovers,  kings, 
Are  idly  lounging  at  the  wings  ; 
Behind  the  curtain's  mystic  fold 
The  glowing  future  lies  unrolled, — 
And  yet,  one  moment  for  the  Past ; 
One  retrospect, — the  first  and  last. 

"  The  world's  a  stage,"  the  master  said. 
To-night  a  mightier  truth  is  read  : 
Not  in  the  shifting  canvas  screen, 
The  flash  of  gas,  or  tinsel  sheen  ; 


ADDRESS. 


Not  in  the  skill  whose  signal  calls 
From  empty  boards  baronial  halls  ; 
But,  fronting  sea  and  curving  bay, 
Behold  the  players  and  the  play. 


Ah,  friends  !  beneath  your  real  skies 
The  actor's  short-lived  triumph  dies : 
On  that  broad  stage,  of  empire  won 
Whose  footlights  were  the  setting  sun, 
Whose  flats  a  distant  background  rose 
In  trackless  peaks  of  endless  snows ; 
Here  genius  bows,  and  talent  waits 
To  copy  that  but  One  creates. 


Your  shifting  scenes  :  the  league  of  sand, 
An  avenue  by  ocean  spanned ; 
The  narrow  beach  of  straggling  tents, 
A  mile  of  stately  monuments ; 
Your  standard,  lo  !  a  flag  unfurled, 
Whose  clinging  folds  clasp  half  the  world,- 
This  is  your  drama,  built  on  facts, 
With  (<  twenty  years  between  the  acts." 


66  ADDRESS. 

One  moment  more  :  if  here  we  raise 
The  oft-sung  hymn  of  local  praise, 
Before  the  curtain  facts  must  sway ; 
Here  waits  the  moral  of  your  piny. 
Glassed  in  the  poet's  thought,  your  view 
What  money  can,  yet  cannot  do  ; 
The  faith  that  soars,  the  deeds  that  jshiuo, 
Above  the  gold  that  builds  the  sliriuo. 

And  oh  !  when  others  take  our  place, 
And  Earth's  green  cur  fain  hides  our  face, 
Ere  on  the  stage,  so  silent  now, 
The  last  new  hero  makes  his  bow  : 
So  may  our  deeds,  recalled  once  more 
In  Memory's  sweet  but  brief  encore, 
Down  all  the  circling  ages  run, 
With  the  world's  Haudit  of  "  Well  done  !  " 


THE  LOST  GALLEON. 

IN  sixteen  hundred  and  forty- one, 

The  regular  yearly  galleon , 

Laden  with  odorous  gums  and  spice, 

India  cottons  and  India  rice, 

And  the  richest  silks  of  far  Cathay, 

Was  due  at  Acapulco  Bay. 

Due  she  was,  and  over- due, — 
Galleon,  merchandise,  and  crew, 
Creeping  along  through  rain  and  shine, 
Through  the  tropics,  under  the  line. 

The  trains  were  waiting  outside  the  walls, 
The  wives  of  sailors  thronged  the  town,. 
The  traders  sat  by  their  empty  stalls, 
And  the  viceroy  himself  came  down; 


68  THE   LOST   GALLEON. 

The  bells  in  the  tower  were  all  a-trip, 
Te  Deums  were  on  each  father's  lip, 
The  limes  were  ripening  in  the  sun 
For  the  sick  of  the  coming  galleon. 


All  in  vain.     Weeks  passed  away, 
And  yet  no  galleon  saw  the  bay  : 
India  goods  advanced  in  price  ; 
The  governor  missed  his  favorite  spice  j 
The  senoritas  mourned  for  sandal, 
And  the  famous  cottons  of  Coromandel 
And  some  for  an  absent  lover  lost, 
And  one  for  a  husband, — Donna  Julia, 
Wife  of  the  captain,  tempest-tossed, 
In  circumstances  so  peculiar : 
Even  the  fathers,  unawares, 
Grumbled  a  little  at  their  prayers ; 
And  all  along  the  coast  that  year 
Votive  candles  were  scarce  and  dear. 

Never  a  tear  bedims  the  eye 

That  time  and  patience  will  not  dry ; 

Never  a  lip  is  curved  with  pain 

That  can't  be  kissed  into  smiles  again  : 


THE   LOST    GALLEON.  69 

And  these  same  truths,  as  far  as  I  know, 
Obtained  on  the  coast  of  Mexico 
More  than  two  hundred  years  ago, 
In  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty-one, — 
Ten  years  after  the  deed  was  done, — 
And  folks  had  forgotten  the  galleon  : 
The  divers  plunged  in  the  Gulf  for  pearls, 
White  as  the  teeth  of  the  Indian  girls  ; 
The  traders  sat  by  their  full  bazaars  ; 
The  mules  with  many  a  weary  load, 
And  oxen,  dragging  their  creaking  cars, 
Came  and  went  on  the  mountain  road. 

Where  was  the  galleon  all  this  while  ? 

Wrecked  on  some  lonely  coral  isle  ? 

Burnt  by  the  roving  sea-marauders, 

Or  sailing  north  under  secret  orders  ? 

Had  she  found  the  Anian  passage  famed, 

By  lying  Moldonado  claimed, 

And  sailed  through  the  sixty -fifth  degree 

Direct  to  the  North  Atlantic  sea  ? 

Or  had  she  found  the  "  River  of  Kings," 

Of  which  De  Fonte  told  such  strange  things 

In  sixteen  forty  ?     Never  a  sign 

East  or  West  or  under  the  line 


70 


THE   LOST   GALLEON. 

They  saw  of  the  missing  galleon ; 

Never  a  sail  or  plank  or  chip  | 

They  found  of  the  long-lost  treasure-ship, 

Or  enough  to  build  a  tale  upon. 

But  when  she  was  lost,  and  where  and  how, 

Are  the  facts  we're  coming  to  just  now. 

Take,  if  you  please,  the  chart  of  that  day 
Published  at  Madrid — por  el  Eey  ; 
Look  for  a  spot  in  the  old  South  Sea, 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree 
Longitude,  west  of  Madrid  :  there, 
Under  the  equatorial  glare, 
Just  where  the  East  and  West  are  one, 
You'll  find  the  missing  galleon, — 
You'll  find  the  "  San  Gregorio,"  yet 
Riding  the  seas,  with  sails  all  set, 
Fresh  as  upon  the  very  day 
She  sailed  from  Acapulco  Bay. 

How  did  she  get  there  ?     What  strange  spell 
Kept  her  two  hundred  years  so  well, 
Free  from  decay  and  mortal  taint  ? 
What  ?  but  the  prayers  of  a  patron  saint ! 


THE    LOST    GALLEOX.  71 

A  hundred  leagues  from  Manilla  town 

The  "  San  Gregorio's  "  helm  came  down. 

Round  she  went  on  her  heel,  and  not 

A  cable's  length  from  a  galliot 

That  rocked  on  the  waters,,  just  abreast 

Of  the  galleon's  course,  which  was  west-sou-west. 

Then  said  the  galleon's  command  ante, 

General  Pedro  Sobriente 

(That  was  his  rank  on  land  and  main, 

A  regular  custom  of  Old  Spain),, 

'"  My  pilot  is  dead  of  scurvy  :  may 

I  ask  the  longitude,  time,  and  day  ?  " 

The  first  two  given  and  compared ; 

The  third, — the  commandante  stared  ! 

"The first  of  June  ?     I  make  it  second." 

Said  the  stranger,  ' '  Then  you've  wrongly  reckoned ; 

I  make  it  first :  as  you  came  this  way, 

You  should  have  lost — d'ye  see — a  day ; 

Lost  a  day,  as  plainly  see, 

On  the  hundred  and  eightieth  degree." 

"  Lost  a  day  ?  "     "  Yes  :  if  not  rude, 

When  did  you  make  east  longitude  ?. " 

<(  On  the  ninth  of  May,  our  patron's  day." 

"  On  the  ninth  ? — you  had  no  ninth  of  May  ! 


72  THE   LOST   GALLEON. 

Eighth  and  tenth  was  there ;  but  stay  " — 
Too  late ;  for  the  galleon  bore  away. 


Lost  was  the  day  they  should  have  kept, 
Lost  unheeded  and  lost  unwept ; 
Lost  in  a  way  that  made  search  vain, 
Lost  in  the  trackless  and  boundless  main ; 
Lost  like  the  day  of  Job's  awful  curse, 
In  his  third  chapter,  third  and  fourth  verse  ; 
Wrecked  was  their  patron's  only  day, — 
What  would  the  holy  fathers  say  ? 


Said  the  Fray  Antonio  Estavan, 
The  galleon's  chaplain,  a  learned  man — 
"  Nothing  is  lost  that  you  can  regain  : 
And  the  way  to  look  for  a  thing  is  plain 
To  go  where  you  lost  it,  back  again. 
Back  with  your  galleon  till  you  see 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree. 
Wait  till  the  rolling  year  goes  round, 
And  there  will  th'e  missing  day  be  found ; 
For  you'll  find — if  computation's  true — 
That  flailing  east  will  give  to  you 


TH1   LOST   GALLEON.  73 

Not  only  one  ninth  of  May,  but  two — 
One  for  the  good  saint's  present  cheer, 
And  one  for  the  day  we  lost  last  year/' 


Back  to  the  spot  sailed  the  galleon ; 

Where,  for  a  twelve-month,  off  and  on 

The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree, 

She  rose  and  fell  on  a  tropic  sea  : 

But  lo  !  when  it  came  to  the  ninth  of  May, 

All  of  a  sudden  becalmed  she  lay 

One  degree  from  that  fatal  spot, 

Without  the  power  to  move  a  knot ; 

And  of  course  the  moment  she  lost  her  way, 

Gone  was  her  chance  to  save  that  day. 

To  cut  a  lengthening  story  short, 

She  never  saved  it.     Made  the  sport 

Of  evil  spirits  and  baffling  wind, 

She  was  always  before  or  just  behind, 

One  day  too  soon,  or  one  day  too  late, 

And  the  sun,  meanwhile,  would  never  wait  : 

She  had  two  eighths,  as  she  idly  lay, 

Two  tenths,  but  never  a  ninth  of  May ; 

And  there  she  rides  through  two  hundred  years 

Of  dreary  penance  and  anxious  fears  : 


74  THE    LOST    GALLEON. 

Yet  through  the  grace  of  the  saint  she  served, 
Captain  and  crew  are  still  preserved. 

By  a  computation  that  still  holds  good, 
Made  by  the  Holy  Brotherhood, 
The  "  San  Gregorio  "  will  cross  that  line 
In  nineteen  hundred  and  thirty -nine  : 
Just  three  hundred  years  to  a  day 
From  the  time  she  lost  the  ninth  of  May. 
And  the  folk  in  Acapulco  town, 
Over  the  waters,  looking  down, 
Will  see  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun 
The  sails  of  the  missing  galleon, 
And  the  royal  standard  of  Philip  Eey  ; 
The  gleaming  mast  and  glistening  spar, 
As  she  nears  the  surf  of  the  outer  bar. 
A  To  Deum  sung  on  her  crowded  deck, 
An  odor  of  spice  along  the  shore, 
A  crash,  a  cry  from  a  shattered  wreck, — 
And  the  yearly  galleon  sails  no  more, 
In  or  out  of  the  olden  bay ; 
For  the  blessed  patron  has  found  his  day. 


THE    LOST    G1LLBON.  75 

Such  is  the  legend.     Hear  this  truth  : 
Over  the  trackless  past,  somewhere, 
Lie  the  lost  days  of  our  tropic  youth, 
Only  regained  by  faith  and  prayer, 
Only  recalled  by  prayer  and  plaint  : 
Each  lost  day  has  its  patron  saint  ! 


A  SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND 
ARMY. 

I  BEAD  last  night  of  the  Grand  Review 
In  Washington's  chiefest  avenue, — 
Two  Hundred  Thousand  men  in  blue, 

I  think  they  said  was  the  number, — 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 

Would  only  my  verse  encumber, — 
Till  I  fell  in  a  reverie,  sad  and  sweet, 

And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 

When,  lo  !  in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.     On  each  hand 


A  SECOND  REVIEW  OP  THE  GRAND  ARMY.     77 

Far  stretched  the  porticoj  dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  spectres,  whom  some  command 

Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing. 
And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and  bare  j 
No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square ; 
But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare. 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to  bear 

The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread ; 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread, 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 

Overlooked  the  review  that  morning. 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm-set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom  buglers  warning  : 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square^  and  wheeled, 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  State  and  field 
Had  led  our  patriot  sires ; 


'  78  A    SECOND    REVIEW    OF   THE   GRAND   ARMY. 

Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp, 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp, 
Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 

Of  wailing  and  lamentation  : 
The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern  Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 

The  patriot  graves  of  the  nation. 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead, — the  men 
Who  perished  in  fever  swamp  and  fen, 
The  slowly  starved  of  the  prison-pen ; 

And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs  of  Pillow's  fight, 
With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright ; 
I  thought — perhaps  'twas  the  pale  moonlight — 

They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers  ! 

And  so  all  night  marched  the  Nation's  dead 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 


A   SECOND   REVIEW   OF   THE    GRAND   ARMY 

Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished ; 
No  mark — save  the  bare  uncovered  head 

Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer ; 
With  never  an  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky ; 
With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves — for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array, 
So  all  night  long  till  the  morning  gray 
1  watched  for  one  who  had  passed  away. 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder, — 
Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  lengthening  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come ;  and  I  spake — and  lo  !  that  sign 

Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 


PART   II. 


BEFORE   THE    CURTAIN. 

BEHIND  the  footlights  hangs  the  rusty  baize, 

A  trifle  shabby  in  the  upturned  blaze 

Of  flaring  gas,  and  curious  eyes  that  gaze. 

The  stage,  methinks,  perhaps  is  none  too  wide, 

And  hardly  fit  for  royal  Eichard's  stride, 

Or  Falstaff's  bulk,  or  Denmark's  youthful  pride. 

Ah,  well !  no  passion  walks  its  humble  boards  ; 
O'er  it  no  king  nor  valiant  Hector  lords  : 
The  simplest  skill  is  all  its  space  affords. 

The  song  and  jest,  the  dance  and  trifling  play, 
The  local  hit  at  follies  of  the  day, 
The  trick  to  pass  an  idle  hour  away, — 

For  these,  no  trumpets  that  announce  the  Moor, 
No  blast  that  makes  the  hero's  welcome  sure, — 
A  single  fiddle  in  the  overture ! 


THE  STAGE-DRIVER'S  STORY. 

IT  was  the  stage-driver's  story,  as  lie  stood  with,  his 

back  to  the  wheelers, 
Quietly  flecking  his  whip,  and  turning  his  quid  of 

tobacco ; 
While  on  the  dusty  road,  and  blent  with  the  rays  of 

the  moonlight, 
We  saw  the  long  curl  of  his  lash  and  the  juice  of 

tobacco  descending. 

"  Danger !     Sir,  I  believe  you, — indeed,  I  may  say 

on  that  subject, 
You  your  existence  might  put  to  the  hazard  and 

turn  of  a  wager. 
I  have  seen  danger  ?     Oh,  no  !  not  me,  sir,  indeed, 

I  assure  you : 
'Twas  only  the  man  with  the  dog  that  is  sitting 

alone  in  yon  wagon. 


86 

"  It  was  the  Geiger  Grade,  a  mile  and  a  half  from 

the  summit  : 
Black  as  your  hat  was  the  night,  and  never  a  star 

in  the  heavens. 
Thundering  down  the  grade,  the  gravel  and  stones 

we  sent  flying 
Over  the  precipice  side, — a  thousand  feet  plumb  to 

the  bottom. 

{f  Half-way  down  the  grade  I  felt,   sir,  a  thrilling 

and  creaking, 
Then  a  lurch  to  one  side,  as  we  hung  on  the  bank 

of  the  caii  on  ; 
Then,   looking  up  the  road,  I  saw,  in  the  distance 

behind  me, 
The  off  hind  wheel  of  the  coach  just  loosed  from  its 

axle,  and  following. 

"  One  glance  alone  I  gave,  then  gathered  together 

my  ribbons, 
Shouted,  and  flung  them,  outspread,  on  the  straining 

necks  of  my  cattle ; 
Screamed  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and  lashed  the  air 

in  my  frenzy, 
While  down  the  Geiger  Grade,  on  three  wheels,  the 

vehicle  thundered. 


87 

"  Speed  was  our  only  chance,  when  again  came  the 

ominous  rattle : 
Crack,  and  another  wheel  slipped  away,  and  was 

lost  in  the  darkness. 
Two  only  now  were  left ;  yet  such  was  our  fearful 

momentum, 
Upright,  erect-,  and    sustained  on  two  wheels,  tlu 

vehicle  thundered. 

"As  some  huge  bowlder,  unloosed  from  its  rocky 

shelf  on  the  mountain, 
Drives  before  it  the  hare  and  the  timorous  squirrel, 

far-leaping, 
So    down   the    Geiger    Grade   rushed   the   Pione:  r 

coach,  and  before  it 
Leaped  the  wild  horses,  and  shrieked  in  advance  of 

the  danger  impending. 

"But  to  be  brief  in  my  tale.  Again,  ere  we  came  to 

the  level, 
Slipped  from  its  axle  a  wheel ;  so  that,  to  be  plain 

in  my  statement, 
A  matter  of  twelve  hundred  yards  or  more,  as  the 

distance  may  be, 
We  travelled  upon  one  wheel,  until  we  drove  up  to 

the  station. 


88  THE  STAGE-DRIVER'S  STORY. 

(<  Then,  sir,  we  sank  in  a  heap  ;  but,  picking  myself 

from  the  ruins, 
I  heard  a  noise  up  the  grade ;  and.,  looking,  I  saw 

in  the  distance 
The  three  wheels  following  still,  like  moons  on  the 

horizon  whirling, 
Till,  circling,  they  gracefully  sank  on  the  road  at  the 

side  of  the  station. 


'  This  is  my  story,  sir;  a  trifle,  indeed,  I  assure  you. 
Much  more,  perchance,  might  be  said ;  but  I  hold 

him,  of  all  men,  most  lightly 
Who  swerves  from  the  truth  in  his  tale.     No,  thank 

you — Well,  since  you  are  pressing, 
Perhaps  I  doii't  care  if  I  do  :  you  may  give  me  the 

same,  Jim — no  sugar." 


ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LAINE. 

A   CHEMICAL  NARRATIVE . 

CERTAIN  facts  which  serve  to  explain 
The  physical  charms  of  Miss  Addie  De  Laine, 
Who,  as  the  common  reports  obtain, 
Surpassed  in  complexion  the  lily  and  rose ; 
With  a  very  sweet  mouth  and  a  retrousse  nose  ; 
A  figure  like  Hebe's,  or  that  which  revolves 
In  a  milliner's  window,  and  partially  solves 
That  question  which  mentor  and  moralist  pains. 
If  grace  may  exist  minus  feeling  or  brains. 
Of  course  the  young  lady  had  beaux  by  the  score, 
All  that  she  wanted — what  girl  could  ask  more  ? 
Lovers  that  sighed,  and  lovers  that  swore, 
Lovers  that  danced,  and  lovers  that  played, 
Men  of  profession,  of  leisure,  and  trade ; 


90  ASPIRING    MISS   DE   LAINE. 

But  one,  who  was  destined  to  take  the  high  part 
Of  holding  that  mythical  treasure,  her  heart, — 
This  lover,  the  wonder  and  envy  of  town, 
Was  a  practising  chemist, — a  fellow  called  Brown. 


I  might  here  remark  that  'twas  doubted  by  many, 
In  regard  to  the  heart,  if  Miss  Addie  had  any ; 
But  no  one  could  look  in  that  eloquent  face, 
With  its  exquisite  outline,  and  features  of  grace, 
And  mark,  through  the  transparent  skin,  how  the 

tide 
Ebbed   and   flowed   at  the   impulse   of   passion  or 

pride, — 

None  could  look,  who  believed  in  the  blood's  circu- 
lation 

As  argued  by  Harvey,  but  saw  confirmation 
That  here,  at  least,  Nature  had  triumphed  o'er  art, 
And,  as  far  as  complexion  went,  she  had  a  heart. 

But  this ,  par  parenthesis.     Brown  was  the  man 

Preferred  of  all  others  to  carry  her  fan, 

Hook  her  glove,  drape  her  shawl,  and  do  all  that  a 

belle 
May  demand  of  the  lover  she  wants  to  treat  well. 


ASPIRING   MISS   DE   LAINE.  91 

Folks  wondered  8nd   stared  that   a   fellow   called 

Brown — • 

Abstracted  and  solemn,  in  manner  a  clown. 
Ill-dressed^  with  a  lingering  smell  of  the  shop — 
Should  appear  as  her  escort  at  party  or  hop. 
Some   swore    he    had    cooked   up   some   villanous 

charm, 

Or  love  philter,  not  in  the  regular  Pharm- 
Acopea,  and  thus,  from  pure  mails  prepense, 
Had  bewitched  and  bamboozled  the  young  lady's 

sense ; 

Others  thought,  with  more  reason,  the  secret  to  lie 
In  a  magical  wash  or  indelible  dye ; 
While  Society  with  its  censorious  eye 
And  judgment  impartial,  stood  ready  to  damn 
What  wasn't  improper  as  being  a  sham. 

For  a  fortnight  the  townfolk  had  all  been  agog 
With  a  party,  the  finest  the  season  had  seen, 
To  be  given  in  honor  of  Miss  Pollywog, 
Who  was  just  coming  out  as  a  belle  of  sixteen. 
The  guests  were  invited ;  but  one  night  before 
A  carriage  drew  up  at  the  modest  back-door 
Of  Brown's  laboratory ;  and,  full  in  the  glare 
Of  a  big  purple  bottle,  some  closely-veiled  fair 


92  ASPIRING   MISS   DE    LAINE. 

Alighted  and  entered :  to  make  matters  plain. 
Spite  of  veils  and  disguises, — 'twas  Addie  De  Laine, 


As  a  bower  for  true  love,  'twas  "hardly  the  one 
That  a  lady  would  choose  to  be  wooed  in  or  won : 
No  odor  of  rose  or  sweet  jessamine's  sigh 
Breathed   a   fragrance   to   hallow   their  pledge   of 

troth  by, 

Nor  the  balm  that  exhales  from  the  odorous  thyme ; 
But  the  gaseous  effusions  of  chloride  of  lime, 
And  salts,  which  your  chemist  delights  to  explain 
As  the  base  of  the  smell  of  the  rose  and  the  drain. 
Think  of  this,  O  ye  lovers  of  sweetness  !   and  know 
What   you    smell    when   you    snuff   up   Lubin    or 

Pinaud. 


I  pass  by  the  greetings,  the  transports  and  bliss, 
Which,  of  course,  duly  followed  a  meeting  like  this, 
And  come  down  to  business ; — for  such  the  intent 
Of  the  lady  who  now  o'er  the  crucible  leant, 
In  the  glow  of  a  furnace  of  carbon  and  lime, 
Like  a  fairy  called  up  in  the  new  pantomime ; — 
And  give  but  her  words  as  she  coyly  looked  down 
In  reply  to  the  questioning  glances  of  Brown  : 


ASPIRING   MISS   DE   LAINE.  93 

e '  I  am  taking  the  drops,  and  am  using  the  paste, 
And   the   little   white  powders   that   had  a   sweet 

taste, 
Which  you  told  me  would  brighten  the  glance  of  my 

eye, 

And  the  depilatory,  and  also  the  dye, 
And  I'm  charmed  with    the  trial  ;    and    now,  my 

dear  Brown, 
I     have    one     other    favor,  —  now,    ducky,    don't 

frown, — 

Only  one,  for  a  chemist  and  genius  like  you 
But  a  trifle,  and  one  you  can  easily  do. 
Now  listen  :  to-morrow,  you  know,  is  the  night 
Of  the  birthday  soiree  of  that  Polly  wog  fright ; 
And  Fin  to  be  there,  and  the  dress  I  shall  wear 
Is  too  lovely  ;  but " —  "  But  what  then,  ma  chere  ?  'J 
Said  Brown,  as  the  lady  came  to  a  full  stop, 
And  glanced  round  the  shelves  of  the  little  back 

shop. 
"  Well,   I  want — I  want  something  to  fill  out  the 

skirt 

To  the  proper  dimension,  without  being  girt 
In  a  stiff  crinoline,  or  caged  in  a  hoop 
That  shows  through  one's  skirt  like  the  bars  of  a 

coop  ; 


9  L  ASPIRING   MISS   DE   LAINE. 

Something  light,  that  a  lady  may  waltz  in,  or  polk, 
With  a  freedom  that  none  but  you  masculine  folk 
Ever  know.     For,  however  poor  woman  aspires, 
She's   always    bound  down  to    the  earth  by  these 

wires. 

Are  you  listening?  nonsense !  don't  stare  like  a  spoon, 
Idiotic ;  some  light  thing,  and  spacious,  and  soon, — 
Something  like — well,  in  fact — something  like  a 

balloon  !  " 
Here  she  paused  ;  and  here  Brown,  overcome  by 

surprise, 

Gave  a  doubting  assent  with  still  wondering  eyes, 
And  the  lady  departed.     But  just  at  the  door 
Something   happened — 'tis  true,    it  had  happened 

before 

In  this  sanctum  of  science, — a  sibilant  sound, 
Like   some  element    just    from   its   trammels    un- 
bound, 
Or  two  substances  that  their  affinities  found. 

The  night  of  the  anxiously  looked-for  soiree 
Had  come,  with  its  fair  ones  in  gorgeous  array ; 
With  the  rattle  of  wheels,  and  the  tinkle  of  bells, 
And  the  "  How  do  ye  dos/;  and  the  "  Hope  you 
are  wells ;" 


ASPIRING   MISS   DE   LAINE.  95 

And  the  crash,  in  the    passage,  and.  last  lingering 

look 

You  give  as  you  hang  your  best  hat  on  the  hook  j 
The  rush  of  hot  air  as  the  door  opens  wide  ; 
And  your  entry, — that  blending  of  self-poss  essed 

pride 

And  humility  shown  in  your  perfect-bred  stare 
At  the  folk,  as  if  wondering  how  they  got  there  ; 
With  other  tricks  worthy  of  Yanity  Fair. 
Meanwhile  that  safe  topic,  the  heat  of  the  room, 
Already  was  losing  its  freshness  and  bloom  ; 
Young  people  were  yawning,  and  wondering  when 
The  dance  would  come  off,  and  why  didn't  it  then. 
When  a  vague  expectation  was  thrilling  the  crowd, 
Lo,   the   door   swung  its    hinges    with    utterance 

proud  ! 

And  Pompey  announced,  with  a  trumpet-like  strain, 
The  entrance  of  Brown  and  Miss  Addie  De  Laine. 


She  entered :  but  oh,  how  imperfect  the  verb 

to  express  to  the  senses  her  movement  superb  ! 

To  say  that  she  "  sailed  in "   more  clearly  might 

tell 
Her  grace  in  its  buoyant  and  billowy  swell. 


96  ASPIRING   MISS  DE   DAINE. 

Her  robe  was  a  vague  circumambient  space, 
With  shadowy  boundaries  made  of  point  lace. 
The  rest  was  but  guess-work,  and  well  might  defy 
The  power  of  critical  feminine  eye 
To  define  or  describe  :  'twere  as  futile  to  try 
The  gossamer  web  of  the  cirrus  to  trace, 
Floating  far  in  the  blue  of  a  warm  summer  sky. 


'Midst  the  humming  of  praises  and  the  glances  of 

beaux, 

That  greet  our  fair  maiden  wherever  she  goes, 
Brown  slipped  like  a  shadow,  grim,  silent,  and 

black, 

With  a  look  of  anxiety,  close  in  her  track, 
Once  he  whispered  aside  in  her  delicate  ear, 
A  sentence  of  warning, — it  might  be  of  fear  : 
"  Don't  stand  in  a  draught,  if  you  value  your  life." 
( Nothing  more, — such  advice  might  be  given  your 

wife 
Or  your  sweetheart,  in  times    of  bronchitis    and 

cough, 

Without  mystery,  romance,  or  frivolous  scoff.) 
But  hark  to  the  music  :  the  dance  has  begun. 
The  closely-draped  windows  wide  open  are  flung ; 


ASPIRING   MISS   DE   LAINE.  97 

The  notes  of  the  piccolo,  joyous  and  light, 

Like   babbles   burst   forth   on  the  warm    summer 

night. 

Round  about  go  the  dancers  ;  in  circles  they  liy  ; 
Trip,  trip,  go  their  feet  as  their  skirts  eddy  by  ; 
And  swifter  and  lighter,  but  somewhat  too  plain, 
Whisks  the    fair   circumvolving   Miss    Addie    Do 

Laine. 


Taglioni  and  Cerito  well  might  have  pined 
For  the  vigor  and  ease  that  her  niov3m3uts    com- 
bined ; 

E'en  Eigelboche  never  flung  higher  her  robe 
In  the  naughtiest  city  that's  known  on  the  globe. 
'Twas  amazing,  'twas  scandalous  :  lost  in  surprise, 
Some  opened  their  mouths,  and  a  few  shut  their 
eyes. 


But  hark  !     At  the  moment  Miss  Addie  De  Laine, 
Circling  round  at  the  outer  edge  of  an  ellipse, 
Which  brought  her  fair  form  to  the  window  again. 
From  the  arms,  uf  her  partner  incautiously  blips  ! 


98  ASPIRING   MISS    DE   LA1NB. 

And  a  shriek  fills  the  air,  and  the  music  is  still, 
And  the  crowd   gather   round  where  her  partner 

forlorn 

Still  frenziedly  points  from  the  wide  window-sill 
Into  space  and  the    night;   for  Miss   Addie  was 

gone  ! 

Gone  like  the  bubble  that  bursts  in  the  sun ; 
Gone  like  the  grain  when  the  reaper  is  done ; 
Gone  like  the  dew  on  the  fresh  morning  grass ; 
G  one  without  parting  farewell ;  and  alas  ! 
Gone  with  a  flavor  of  Hydrogen  Gas. 

When  the  weather  is  pleasant,  you  frequently  meet 
A  white-headed  man  slowly  pacing  the  street; 
His  trembling  hand  shading  his  lack-lustre  eye, 
Half-blind  with  continually  scanning  the  sky. 

Rumor  points  him  as  some  astronomical  sage, 
Eeperusing  by  day  the  celestial  page ; 
But  the  reader,  sagacious,  will  recognize  Brown, 
Trying  vainly  to  conjure  his  lost  sweetheart  down, 
And  learn  the  stern  moral  this  story  must  teach, 
That  Genius  may  lift  its  love  out  of  its  reach. 


CALIFOKNIA  MADRIGAL. 

ON   THE   APPEOACH   OF    SPRING. 

OH  COME,  my  beloved !  from  thy  wintry  abode. 
From  thy  home  on  the  Yuba,  thy  ranch  overflowed 
For  the  waters  have  fallen,  the  winter  has  fled, 
And  the  river  once  more  has  returned  to  its  bed. 

Oh,  mark  how  the  spring  in  its  beauty  is  near  ! 
How  the  fences  and  tules  once  more  re-appear ! 
How  soft  lies  the  mud  on  the  banks  of  yon  slough 
By  the  hole  in  the  levee  the  waters  broke  through  ! 

All  Nature,  dear  Chloris,  is  blooming  to  greet 
The  glance  of  your  eye,  and  the  tread  of  your  feei 
For  the  trails  are  all  open,  the  roads  are  all  free, 
And  the  highwayman's  whistle  is  heard  on  the  leg . 


100  CALIFOENTA   MADRIGAL. 

Again  swings  the  lash  on  the  high  mountain  trail, 
And  the  pipe  of  the  packer  is  scenting  the  gale  ; 
The  oath  and  the  jest  ringing  high  o'er  the  plain, 
AVhere  the  smut  is  not  always  confined  to  the  grain. 

Once  more  glares  the  sunlight  on  awning  and  roof, 
Once  more  the  red  clay's  pulverized  by  the  hoof, 
Once  more  the  dust  powders  the  ' '  outsides  "  with  red, 
Once  more  at  the  station  the  whiskey  is  spread. 

Then  fly  with  me,  love,  ere  the  summer's  begun, 
And  the  mercury  mounts  to  one  hundred  and  one  ; 
Ere  the  grass  now  so  green  shall  be  withered  and  sear, 
In  the  spring  that  obtains  but  one  month  in  the  year. 


ST.  THOMAS. 

A   GEOGRAPHICAL   SURVEY. 

(1868.) 

VERY  fair  and  full  of  promise 
Lay  the  island  of  St.  Thomas  : 
Ocean  o'er  its  reefs  and  bars 
Hid  its  elemental  scars  ; 
Groves  of  cocoanut  and  guava 
Grew  above  its  fields  of  lava. 
So  the  gem  of  the  Antilles, — 
"  Isles  of  Eden/'  where  no  ill  is, — 
Like  a  great  green  turtle  slumbered 
On  the  sea  that  it  encumbered. 
Then  said  William  Henry  Seward, 
As  he  cast  his  eye  to  leeward, 
"  Quite  important  to  our  commerce 
Is  this  island  of  St.  Thomas." 


102  ST.  THOMAS. 

Said  the  Mountain  ranges,  "  Thank'ee, 
But  we  cannot  stand  the  Yankee 
O'er  our  scars  and  fissures  poring, 
In  our  very  vitals  boring, 
In  our  sacred  caverns  prying, 
All  our  secret  problems  trying, — 
Digging,  blasting,  with  dynamit 
Mocking  all  our  thunders  !     Damn  it ! 
Other  lands  may  be  more  civil, 
Bust  our  lava  crust  if  we  will." 

Said  the  Sea, — its  white  teeth  gnashing 
Through  its  coral-reef  lips  flashing, — 
"  Shall  I  let  this  scheming  mortal 
Shut  with  stone  my  shining  portal, 
Curb  my  tide,  and  check  my  play, 
Fence  with  wharves  my  shining  bay  ? 
Rather  let  me  be  drawn  out 
In  one  awful  water-spout  I" 

Said  the  black -browed  Hurricane, 
Brooding  down  the  Spanish  main, 
"  Shall  I  see  my  forces,  zounds  ! 
Measured  by  square  inch  and  pounds, 


ST.    THOMAS.  10 

With,  detectives  at  my  back 
When  I  double  on  my  track, 
And  my  secret  paths  made  clear, 
Published  o'er  the  hemisphere 
To  each  gaping,  prying  crew  ? 
Shall  I  ?     Blow  me  if  I  do  ?  " 

So  the  Mountains  shook  and  thundered, 
And  the  Hurricane  came  sweeping, 
And  the  people  stared  and  wondered 
As  the  Sea  came  on  them  leaping  : 
Each,  according  to  his  promise, 
Made  things  lively  at  St.  Thomas. 

Till  one  morn,  when  Mr.  Seward 
Cast  his  weather  eye  to  leeward, 
There  was  not  an  inch  of  dry  land 
Left  to  mark  his  recent  island. 
Not  a  flagstaff  or  a  sentry, 
Not  a  wharf  or  port  of  entry, — • 
Only — to  cut  matters  shorter — 
Just  a  patch  of  muddy  water 
In  the  open  ocean  lying, 
And  a  gull  above  it  flying. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE. 


A    LEGEND    OP    THE    CLIFF    HOUSE,    SAN    FRANCISCO. 


WHERE  tlie  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
Drives  the  spray  of  roaring  seas 
That  the  Cliff-House  balconies 

Overlook : 

There,  in  spite  of  rain  that  balked, 
With  his  sandals  duly  chalked, 
Once  upon  a  tight-rope  walked 

Mr.  Cooke. 


But  the  jester's  lightsome  mien, 
And  his  spangles  and  his  sheen, 
All  had  vanished,  when  the  scene 

He  forsook  ;• 


THE    BALLAD   OF   MB.    COOKE.  105 

Yet  in  some  delusive  hope, 
In  some  vague  desire  to  cope., 
One  still  came  to  view  the  rope 

Walked  by  Cooke. 


Amid  Beauty's  bright  array, 
On  that  strange  eventful  day, 
Partly  hidden  from  the  spray, 

In  a  nook, 

Stood  Florinda  Vere  de  Yere ; 
Who  with  wind- dishevelled  hair, 
And  a  rapt,  distracted  air, 

Gazed  on  Cooke. 


Then  she  turned,  and  quickly  cried 

To  her  lover  at  her  side, 

While  her  form  with  love  and  pride 

Wildly  shook, 

"  Clifford  Snook  !   oh,  hear  me  now  1 
Here  I  break  each  plighted  vow  : 
There's  but  one  to  whom  I  bow, 

And  that's  Cooke !" 


106  THE   BALLAD   OF   MR.    COOKE. 

Haughtily  that  young  man  spoke  : 

"I  descend  from  noble  folk. 

'  Seven  Oaks/  and  then  '  Se'nnoak/ 

Lastly  Snook, 

Is  the  way  my  name  I  trace : 
Shall  a  youth  of  noble  race 
In  affairs  of  love  give  place 

To  a  Cooke?" 


"  Clifford  Snook,  I  know  thy  claim 
To  that  lineage  and  name, 
And  I  think  Fve  read  the  same 

In  Home  Tooke ; 
But  I  swear,  by  all  divine, 
Never,  never  to  be  thine, 
'Till  thou  canst  upon  yon  line 

Walk  like  Cooke." 


Though  to  that  gymnastic  feat 
He  no  closer  might  compete 
Than  to  strike  a  balance-sheet 

In  a  book ; 


THE  BALLAD  OP  ME.  COOKE.         107 

Yet  thenceforward,  from  that  day, 
He  his  figure  would  display 
In  some  wild  athletic  way, 

After  Cooke, 


On  some  household  eminence, 
On  a  clothes-line  or  a  fence, 
Over  ditches,  drains,  and  thence 

O'er  a  brook, 
He,  by  high  ambition  led, 
Ever  walked  and  balanced ; 
Till  the  people,  wondering,  said, 

"How like  Cooke!" 


Step  by  step  did  he  proceed, 
Nerved  by  valor,  not  by  greed, 
And  at  last  the  crowning  deed 

Undertook  : 

Misty  was  the  midnight  air, 
And  the  cliff  was  bleak  and  bare, 
When  he  came  to  do  and  dare 

Just  like  Cooke. 


108         THE  BALLAD  OP  ME.  COOKE. 

Through  the  darkness,  o'er  the  flow, 
Stretched  the  line  where  he  should  go 
Straight  across,  as  flies  the  crow 

Or  the  rook : 

One  wild  glance  around  he  cast ; 
Then  he  faced  the  ocean  blast, 
And  he  strode  the  cable  last 

Touched  by  Cooke, 


Vainly  roared  the  angry  seas ; 
Vainly  blew  the  ocean  breeze ; 
But,  alas  !  the  walker's  knees 

Had  a  crook ; 

And  before  he  reached  the  rock 
Did  they  both  together  knock, 
And  he  stumbled  with  a  shock — 

Unlike  Cooke ! 


Downward  dropping  in  the  dark, 
Like  an  arrow  to  its  mark, 
Or  a  fish-pole  when  a  shark 

Bites  the  hook, 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE.          109 

Dropped  the  pole  he  could  not  save, 
Dropped  the  walker,  and  the  wave 
Swift  ingulfed  the  rival  brave 

Of  J.  Cooke ! 


Came  a  roar  across  the  sea 
Of  sea-lions  in  their  glee, 
In  a  tongue  remarkably 

Like  Chinnook; 

And  the  maddened  sea-gull  seemed 
Still  to  utter,  as  he  screamed, 
"  Perish  thus  the  wretch  who  deemed 

Himself  Cooke ! " 


But,  on  misty  moonlit  nights, 
Comes  a  skeleton  in  tights, 
Walks  once  more  the  giddy  heights 

He  mistook ; 

And  unseen  to  mortal  eyes, 
Purged  of  grosser  earthly  ties, 
Now  at  last  in  spirit  guise 

Outdoes  Cooke, 


110  THE   BALLAD   OF   MR.    COOKE. 

Still  the  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
Sweeps  the  spray  of  roaring  seas, 
Where  the  Cliff-House  balconies 

Overlook ; 

And  the  maidens  in  their  prime 
Beading  of  this  mournful  rhyme, 
Weep  where,  in  the  olden  time. 

Walked  J.  Cooke. 


THE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  RHINE. 

BEETLING  walls  with  ivy  grown, 
Frowning  heights  of  mossy  stone ; 
Turret,  with  its  flaunting  flag 
Flung  from  battlement ed  crag ; 
Dungeon-keep  and  fortalice 
Looking  down  a  precipice 
O'er  the  darkly  glancing  wave 
By  the  Lurline-haunted  cave ; 
Robber  haunt  and  maiden  bower, 
Home  of  Love  and  Crime  and  Power,- 
That's  the  scenery,  in  fine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

One  bold  baron,  double-dyed 
Bigamist  and  parricide, 
And,  as  most  the  stories  run, 
Partner  of  the  Evil  One ; 


112        THE  LEGENDS  OP  THE  EH1NE. 

Injured  innocence  in  white. 
Fair  but  idiotic  quite, 
Wringing  of  her  lily  hands  ; 
Valor  fresh  from  Paynim  lands, 
Abbot  ruddy,  hermit  pale, 
Minstrel  fraught  with  many  a  tale, — 
Are  the  actors  that  combine 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Bell-mouthed  flagons  round  a  board  ; 
Suits  of  armor,  shield,  and  sword  ; 
Kerchief  with  its  bloody  stain; 
Ghosts  of  the  untimely  slain ; 
Thunder- clap  and  clanking  chain ; 
Headsman's  block  and  shining  axe ; 
Thumbscrews,  crucifixes,  racks ; 
Midnight-tolling  chapel  bell, 
Heard  across  the  gloomy  fell, — 
These,  and  other  pleasant  facts, 
Are  the  properties  that  shino 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Maledictions,  whispered  vows 
Underneath  the  linden  boughs  ; 
Murder,  bigamy,  and  theft; 
Travellers  of  goods  bereft ; 


THE   LEGENDS   OF   THE   EHINE.  113 

Rapine,  pillage,  arson,  spoil, — 
Every  thing  but  honest  toil, 
Are  the  deeds  that  best  define 
Every  Legend  of  the  Rhine. 

That  Virtue  always  meets  reward, 
But  quicker  when  it  wears  a  sword ; 
That  Providence  has  special  care 
Of  gallant  knight  and  lady  fair ; 
That  villains,  as  a  thing  of  course, 
Are  always  haunted  by  remorse, — 
Is  the  moral,  I  opine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 


MRS.  JUDGE  JENKINS. 

[BEING  THE  ONLY  GENUINE  SEQUEL  TO  "MAUD  MULLER."] 


MAUD  MULLER,  all  that  summer  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay ; 

Yet,  looking  down  the  distant  lane, 
She  hoped  the  judge  would  come  again. 

But  when  he  came,  with  smile  and  bow, 

Maud  only  blushed,  and  stammered,  "  Ha-ow  ?" 

And  spoke  of  her  "  pa,"  and  wondered  whether 
He'd  give  consent  they  should  wed  together. 


MES.    JUDGE    JENKINS.  115 

Old  Muller  burst  in  tears  and  then 

Begged  that  the  judge  would  lend  him  "  ten ;  " 


For  trade  was  dull,  and  wages  low, 

And  the  " craps/'  this  year,  were  somewhat  slow 


And  ere  the  languid  summer  died, 
Sweet  Maud  became  the  judge's  bride. 


But,  on  the  day  that  they  were  mated, 
Maud's  brother  Bob  was  intoxicated ; 


And  Maud's  relations.,  twelve  in  all, 
Were  very  drunk  at  the  judge's  hall. 

And  when  the  summer  came  again, 
The  young  bride  bore  him  babies  twain, 


And  the  judge  was  blest,  but  thought  it  strange 
That  bearing  children  made  such  a  change : 


116  MRS.    JUDGE    JENKINS. 

For  Maud  grew  broad  and  red  and  stout ; 
And  the  waist  that  his  arm  once  clasped  about 


Was  more  than  ho  now  could  span.     And  he 
Sighed  as  he  pondered,  ruefully, 

How  that  which  in  Maud  was  native  grace 
In  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  out  of  place  ; 

And  thought  of  the  twins,  and  wished  that  they 
Looked  less  like  the  man  who  raked  the  hay 

On  Muller's  farm,  and  dreamed  with  paiu 
Of  the  day  he  wandered  down  the  lane. 


And,  looking  down  that  dreary  track,  - 
He  half  regretted  that  he  came  back. 


For,  had  he  waited,  he  might  have  wed 
Some  maiden  fair  and  thoroughbred ; 


MRS.    JUDGE   JENKINS.  117 

For  there  be  women  fair  as  she, 
Whose  verbs  and  nouns  do  more  agree. 

Alas  for  maiden  !  alas  for  judge  ! 

And  the  sentimental, — that's  one-half  "judge;  " 

For  Maud  soon  thought  the  judge  a  bore. 
With  all  his  learning  and  all  his  lore. 

And  the  judge  would  have  bartered  Maud's  fair 

face 
For  more  refinement  and  social  grace. 

If,  of  all  words  of  tongue  and  pen, 

The  saddest  are,  "  It  might  have  been/' 

More  sad  are  these  we  daily  see  : 
"  It  is,  but  hadn't  ought  to  be." 


AVITOll. 

AN  AEEIAL   EETEOSPECT. 

WHAT  was  it  filled  my  youthful  dream s, 
In  place  of  Greek  or  Latin  themes. 
Or  beauty's  wild,  bewildering  beams  ? 

Avitor  ? 

What  visions  and  celestial  scenes 
I  filled  with  aerial  machines, — 
Montgolfier's  and  Mr.  Green's  ! 

Avitor ! 

What  fairy  tales  seemed  things  of  course  ! 
The  rock  that  brought  Sindbad  across, 
e  Calendar's  own  winged-horse  ! 

Avitor ! 


AVITOR. 

How  many  things  I  took  for  facts, — 

Icarus  and  his  conduct  lax, 

And  how  he  sealed  his  fate  with  wax  ! 

Avitor  ! 

The  first  balloons  I  sought  to  sail, 
Soap-bubbles  fair,  but  all  too  frail, 
Or  kites, — but  thereby  hangs  a  tail. 

Avitor  ! 

What  made  me  launch  from  attic  tall 

A  kitten  and  a  parasol, 

And  watch  their  bitter,  frightful  fall  ? 

Avitor  ? 

What  youthful  dreams  of  high  renown 
Bad  me  inflate  the  parson's  gown, 
That  went  not  up,  nor  yet  came  down  ? 

Avitor  ? 

My  first  ascent,  I  may  not  tell : 
Enough  to  know  that  in  that  well 
My  first  high  aspirations  fell, 

Avitor ! 


119 


120  AVITOR 

My  other  failures  let  me  pass  : 
The  dire  explosions  ;  and,  alas  ! 
The  friends  I  choked  with  noxious  gas, 

Avitor  ! 

For  lo  !  I  see  perfected  rise 
The  vision  of  my  boyish  eyes, 
The  messenger  of  upper  skies, 

Avitor  ! 


A  WHITE-PINE  BALLAD. 

RECENTLY  with    Samuel  Johnson    this   occasion   I 

improved, 
Whereby  certain   gents   of  affluence   I   hear  were 

greatly  moved ; 
But  not  all  of  Johnson's  folly,  although  multiplied 

by  nine, 
Could  compare  with  Milton  Perkins,  late  an  owner 

in  White  Pine. 


Johnson's  folly — to  be  candid — was  a  wild  desire  to 

treat 
Every  able  male  white  citizen    he  met  upon  the 

street ; 
And  there  being  several  thousand — but  this  subject 

why  pursue  ? 
;Tis  with  Perkins,  and  not  Johnson,  that  to-day  we 

have  to  do. 


122  A    WHITE -PINE   BALLAD. 

No  :  not  wild  promiscuous  treating,  not  the  wine- 
cup's  ruby  flow, 

But  the  female  of  his  species  brought  the  noble 
Perkins  low. 

'Twas  a  wild  poetic  fervor,  and  excess  of  senti- 
ment, 

That  left  the  noble  Perkins  in  a  week  without  a 
cent. 

' '  Milton  Perkins,"  said  the  Siren,  "  not  thy  wealth 
do  I  admire, 

But  the  intellect  that  flashes  from  those  eyes  of 
opal  fire ; 

And  methinks  the  name  thou  bearest  surely  cannot 
be  misplaced, 

And,  embrace  me,  Mister  Perkins  !  "  Milton  Per- 
kins her  embraced. 

But  I  grieve  to  state,  that  even  then,  as  she  was 

wiping  dry 

The  tear  of  sensibility  in  Milton  Perkins'  eye, 
She  prigged  his  diamond  bosom-pin,  and  that  her 

wipe  of  lace 
Did  seem  to  have  of  chloroform  a  most  suspicious 

trace. 


A  WHITE-PINE   BALLAD.  123 

Enough  that  Milton  Perkins  later  in  the  night  was 
found 

With  his  head  in  an  ash-barrel,  and  his  feet  upon 
the  ground ; 

And  he  murmured  "  Seraphina,"  and  he  kissed  his 
hand  and  smiled 

On  a  party  who  went  through  him,  like  an  unre- 
sisting child. 


MORAL. 


Now  one  word  to  Pogonippers,  ere  this  subject  I 

resign, 
In  this  tale  of  Milton  Perkins, — late  an  owner  in 

White  Pine,— 
You  shall  see  that  wealth  and  women  are  deceitful, 

just  the  same; 
And  the   tear   of   sensibility  has    salted    many  a 

claim. 


WHAT  THE  WOLF  EEALLY  SAID  TO 
LITTLE  RED  HIDING-HOOD. 


WONDERING  maiden,  so  puzzled  and  fair, 

Why  dost  thou  murmur  and  ponder  and  stare  ? 

"  Why  are  my  eyelids  so  open  and  wild  ?" — 

Only  the  better  to  see  with,  my  child ! 

Only  the  better  and  clearer  to  view 

Cheeks  that  are  rosy,  and  eyes  that  are  blue. 


Dost  thou  still  wonder,  and  ask  why  these  arms 
Fill  thy  soft  bosom  with  tender  alarms, 
Swaying  so  wickedly  ? — are  they  misplaced, 
Clasping  or  shielding  some  delicate  waist : 
Hands  whose  coarse  sinews  may  fill  you  with  fear 
Only  the  better  protect  you,  my  dear  ! 


LITTLE    EEC    RIDING-HOOD.  125 

Little  Red  Kiding-Hood,  when  in  the  street, 
Why  do  I  press  your  small  hand  when  we  meet  ? 
Why,  when  you  timidly  offered  your  cheek, 
Why  did  I  sigh,  and  why  didn't  I  speak  ? 
Why,  well :  you  see — if  the  truth  must  appear — 
I'm  not  your  grandmother,  Kiding-Hood,  dear  ! 


THE  RITUALIST. 


HE  wore,  I  think,  a  chasuble,  the  day  when  first 

we  met ; 

A  stole  and  snowy  alb  likewise  :  I  recollect  it  yet. 
He  called  me  "  daughter/'  as  he  raised  his  jewelled 

hand  to  bless ; 
And    then,    in    thrilling    undertones,    he     asked, 

"  Would  I  confess?" 

0  mother,  dear  !  blame  not  your  child,  if  then  on 

bended  knees 

1  dropped,    and    thought   of   Abelard,   and   also 

Eloise ; 
Or  when,  beside  the  altar  high,  he  bowed  before 

the  pyx, 
I  envied  that  seraphic  kiss  he  gave  the  crucifix. 


THE   RITUALIST.  127 

The  cruel  world  may  think  it  wrong,  perhaps  may 

deem  me  weak, 
And,  speaking  of  that  sainted  man,  may  call  his 

conduct  "  cheek ;" 
And,  like  that  wicked  barrister  whom  Cousin  Harry 

quotes, 
May  term  his  mixed  chalice  ' '  grog,"  his  vestments 

"  petticoats." 

But,    whatsoe'er    they   do    or    say,    Fll    build    a 

Christian's  hope 
On   incense  and   on  altar-lights,  on   chasuble  and 

cope. 
Let  others  prove,  by  precedent,  the  faith  that  they 

profess : 
"  His  can't  be  wrong"  that's  symbolized  by  such 

becoming  dress. 


A  MORAL  VINDICATOR. 


IP  Mr.  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
Had  one  peculiar  quality, 
'Twas  his  severe  advocacy 
Of  conjugal  fidelity. 


His  views  of  heaven  were  very  free  ; 
His  views  of  life  were  painfully 
Ridiculous;  but  fervently 
He  dwelt  on  marriage  sanctity. 


He  frequently  went  on  a  spree ; 
But  in  his  wildest  revelry, 
On  this  especial  subject  he 
Betrayed  no  ambiguity. 


A   MORAL   VINDICATOR. 

And  though  at  times  Lycurgus  B. 
Did  lay  his  hands  not  lovingly 
Upon  his  wife,  the  sanctity 
Of  wedlock  was  his  guaranty. 

But  Mrs.  Jones  declined  to  see 
Affairs  in  the  same  light  as  he, 
And  quietly  got  a  decree 
Divorcing  her  from  that  L.  B. 

And  what  did  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
With  his  known  idiosyncrasy  ? 
He  smiled, — a  bitter  smile  to  see, — 
And  drew  the  weapon  of  Bowie. 

He  did  what  Sickles  did  to  Key, — 
What  Cole  on  Hiscock  wrought,  did  he ; 
In  fact,  on  persons  twenty-three 
He  proved  the  marriage  sanctity. 

The  counsellor  who  took  the  fee, 
The  witnesses  and  referee, 
The  judge  who  granted  the  decree, 
Died  in  that  wholesale  butchery. 

9 


130  A    MORAL   VINDICATOR. 

And  then  when  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
Had  wiped  the  weapon  of  Bowie, 
Twelve  jurymen  did  instantly 
Acquit  and  set  Lycurgus  free. 


SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE. 

FOR   THE   PARLOR  AND   PIANO. 
I. — THE    PERSONIFIED    SENTIMENTAL. 

AFFECTION'S  charm  no  longer  gilds 

The  idol  of  the  shrine ; 
But  cold  Oblivion  seeks  to  fill 

Regret's  ambrosial  wine. 
Though  Friendship's  offering  buried  lies 

'Neath  cold  Aversion's  snow, 
Regard  and  Faith  will  ever  bloom 

Perpetually  below. 

i 
I  see  thee  whirl  in  marble  halls, 

In  Pleasure's  giddy  train ; 
Remorse  is  never  on  that  brow, 

Nor  Sorrow's  mark  of  pain. 


132  SONGS   WITHOUT    SENSE. 

Deceit  has  marked  th.ee  for  her  own ; 

Inconstancy  the  same ; 
And  Buin  wildly  sheds  its  gleam 

Athwart  thy  path  of  shame. 


II.    THE    HOMELY   PATHETIC. 

The  dews  are  heavy  on  my  brow ; 

My  breath  comes  hard  and  low ; 
Yet,  mother,  dear,  grant  one  request, 

Before  your  boy  must  go. 
Oh  !  lift  me  ere  my  spirit  sinks, 

And  ere  my  senses  fail : 
Place  me  once  more,  0  mother  dear  ! 

Astride  the  old  fence-rail. 

The  old  fence -rail,  the  old  fence-rail ! 

How  oft  these  youthful  legs, 
With  Alice'  and  Ben  Bolt's,  were  hung 

Across  those  wooden  pegs. 
'Twas  there  the  nauseating  smoke 

Of  my  first  pipe  arose  : 
O  mother,  dear  !  these  agonies 

Are  far  less  keen  than  those. 


SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE.  133 

I  know  where  lies  the  hazel  dell, 

Where  simple  Nellie  sleeps  j 
I  know  the  cot  of  Nettie  Moore, 

And  where  the  willow  weeps. 
I  know  the  brookside  and  the  mill : 

But  all  their  pathos  fails 
Beside  the  days  when  once  I  sat 

Astride  the  old  fence-rails. 


III. — SWISS   AIE. 

I'm  a  gay  tra,  la,  la, 
With  my  fal,  lal,  la,  la, 
And  my  bright — 
And  my  light — 
Tra,  la,  le. 

Then  laugh,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
And  ring,  ting,  ling,  ling, 
And  sing  fal,  la,  la, 

La,  la,  le.  [Repeat.] 


.THAT  HEATHEN   CHINEE. 

1870. 

WHICH  I  wish  to  remark — 

And  my  language  is  plain — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name  ; 

And  I  shall  not  deny" 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply, 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  arid  child-like, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third ; 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies ; 


THAT    HEATHEN   CHINEE.  135 

Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise  ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 
It  was  Euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table,, 

With  the  smile  that  was  child-like  and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve  : 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 


136  THAT   HEATHEN  CHINEE. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  lie  gazed  upon  me ; 
And  lie  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labour  " — 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding 

D' 

In  the  game  "  he  did  not  understand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty-four  packs — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts  ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers — that's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 


"  JIM." 

SAY  there !     PVaps 
Some  on  you  chaps 

Might  know  Jim  Wild  ? 
Well, — no  offence : 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 

In  gittin'  riled ! 

Jim  was  my  chum 

Up  on  the  Bar  : 
That's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar, 
Lookin'  for  Jim. 
Thank  ye,  sir  !     You 
Ain't  of  that  crew, — 

Blest  if  you  are  Ig^^  Ubraiy 

Money  ? — Not  much  : 
That  ain't  my  kind  : 


I 

138  "JIM." 

I  ain't  no  such. 

Bum? — I  don't  mind, 
Seem'  it's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  you  know  him  ? — 
Jess  'bout  your  size  ; 
Same  kind  of  eyes  ? — 
Well,  that  is  strange  : 
Why,  it's  two  year 
Since  he  came  here, 
Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here's  to  us  : 

Eh? 
The  h you  say  ! 

Dead  ?— 
That  little  cuss  ? 

What  makes  you  star, — 
You  over  thar  ? 
Can't  a  man  drop 
's  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  rar'  ? 


139 


It  wouldn't  take 

D much  to  break 

You  and  your  bar. 

Dead  ! 

Poor— little— Jim ! 
— Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben, — • 
No-account  men  : 
Then  to  take  him ! 

Well,  thar,— Good-bye,— 
No  more,  sir, — I — 

Eh? 

What's  that  you  say  ? — 
Why,  dern  it  ! — sho  ! — 
No  ?  Yes  !  By  Jo  ! 

Sold! 

Sold  !     Why,  you  limb, 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim ! 


DOW'S    FLAT. 
1856. 

Dow's  FLAT.     That's  its  name. 

And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?     The  same  ? 

Well,  I  thought  it  was  true, — 
For  thar  isn't  a  man  on  the  river  as  can't  spot  the 

place  at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow, — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass, — 

And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass, — 
Jest  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye 
down  here  in  the  grass  : 

You  see  this  yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck  ; 


DOW'S    FLAT.  141 

He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 

Why,  ef  he'd  a  straddled  thet  fence-rail  the  derned 
thing  'ed  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  couldn't  pay  rates  ; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  he  tunnelled  with  Bates ; 
And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem  his  wife  and 

five  kids  from  the  States. 

It  was  rough; — mighty  rough ; 

But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 

For  a  house,  on  the  sly ; 
And  the  old  woman, — well,  she  did  washing,  and 

took  on  when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 

Dried  right  up  on  the  green ; 
And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary  a 

drop  to  be  seen. 


142 

Then  the  bar  petered  out, 
And  the  boys  wouldn't  stay  ; 

And  the  chills*  got  about. 
And  his  wife  fell  away  : 

But  Dow,  in  his  well,  kept  a  peggin'  in  his  usual 
ridikilous  way. 

One  day, — it  was  June, — 

And  a  year  ago,  jest, — 
This  Dow  kem  at  noon 

To  his  work  like  the  rest, 
With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  der- 

ringerf  hid  in  his  breast. 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell 

Jest  to  listen  and  think  : 
For  the  sun  in  his  eyes,  (jest  like  this,  sir  !)  you  see, 

kinder  made  the  cuss  blink. 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 

Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay  : 

*  Fever  and  ague.  t  A  derringer,  revolver. 


143 

Not  much  for  a  man  to  be  leaving  but  his  all, — as 
I've  heer'd  the  folks  say. 

And — That's  a  peart  hoss 

Thet  you've  got, — ain't  it  now  ? 

What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh  ?  Oh  !— Well,  then,  Dow- 
Let's  soe, — well,  that  forty-foot  grave  wasn't   his, 
sir,  that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 
Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 

For  you  see  the  dern  cuss  had  struck — "  Water  ?  " — 
Beg  your  parding,  young  man,  there  you 
lied! 

It  was  gold, — in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike ; 
And  I  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike ; 

And  that  house  with  the  'coopilow's  his'n, — which 
the  same  isn't  bad  for  a  Pike. 


]  i  i  DOW'S    FLAT, 

Thet's  why  it's  Dow's  Flat ; 

And  tlie  thing  of  it  is 
That  he  kinder  got  that 

Through  sheer  contrairiness  : 
For  'twas  water  the  derned  cuss  was  seeking  and 

his  luck  made  him  certain  to  miss. 

Thet's  so.     Thar's  your  way 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree  ; 
But — a — look  h'yur,  say  ? 

Wont  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 

No  ?     Well,  then  the  next  time  you're  passin'  ;  and 
ask  after  Dow, — and  thet's  me. 


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